


Remembrance: Part III

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Ben is a mess, Friendship, Healing, Jedi Culture, Jedi Temple, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian politics, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Pacifism, Planetary Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quinlan Vos is also a Mess, Talking about your problems is good for you, Tatooine Slave Culture, The Dark Side of the Force, Therapy, Time Travel, War, Yoda is a Troll, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: MANDO'ANi ceta par ner uur.  Ni.... gar gaa'tayl, a ni shi nayc kar'taylir meg at sirbur. = I'm sorry for my silence. I...you helped me. I just didn't know what to say.a ni ru'kir ganar sha diryc sirbur vor entye. = But i should have at least said thank you.Vor entye = Thank you.





	1. Chapter 1

“Making the duties of their crèchemasters difficult, you are.” Yoda remarks, hobbling his way towards the young woman sitting on a smooth stone rising just above the water of the still pond around it.

Dark brown eyes open, fixing him with a sharp, but not severe, gaze. Her face was young, though touched by fine silvery scars, but her eyes were not. There was no innocence there, no naivety, no awe-filled wonder at the universe. It saddened him, to see one so young with such eyes, with a burden on their soul that even he, with all his many centuries, could not claim to have ever carried.

“Making their crèchemasters duties easy would do the crèchelings no favors, Elder.” Padawan Shmi Skywalker replies, her hair pulled up into a neat coil on top of her head, only her padawan braid tailing down.

“Elder?” Yoda repeats. “Retired, am I? No. Retire, I cannot. Much to do, there is. Show us that, you have.”

“I had thought you would prefer Elder to Grandfather.” Padawan Skywalker replies, a glimmer of amusement in her gaze for his cantankerous behavior, his clawed toes curling into the mossy edges of her pond. “’Master’ still does not sit well on my tongue.”

“Hmm.” Yoda mumbles, leaning over his walking stick and peering at her. “Fear us, do you? Fear that a word makes us what you believe it means?”

“Fear is a survival instinct.” Shmi replies. “And I have survived much. You have power, and power should be feared.”

“Power you have, also.” Yoda points out.

“We are not, I think, speaking of the same power.” Padawan Skywalker replies quietly.

“Padawan Skywalker!” A breathless youngling dashes to the edge of the pond, trailing three others by the hand – or claw, as the case would be. “I found all but one! Ni-He is really, _really_ good at the hiding.”

“Then you must be better at the finding.” Shmi replies, smiling at them.

“But it’s taking _soooo loooong_.” The youngling whines.

Padawan Skywalker studies the antsy children thoughtfully for a few seconds, lips pursing in thought. “What if Ni-He were not hiding?”

The younglings blink blankly at her.

“What is Ni-He were lost? And scared? What if they were not hiding from you, but someone who would do them harm, and you were sent to rescue them? Would you give up then, because it takes so long?” Padawan Skywalker inquires.

“No!” The smallest youngling yelps, and the others nod, looking determined, and the youngling in the middle turns on their companions. “This is a rescue mission! We need to go save Ni-He.” They declare, with childish certainty and self-indulgent severity. 

With the eerie precision crèchelings have, they all four turn and bow together, and then dash off with adorable haste, though Master Yoda finds that the way they suddenly quiet in the Force to be…unsettling. When they fade from sight, they also fade almost completely from his senses, such as experienced Shadows were ought to.

“A good teacher, you are.” Yoda comments, for all that he believes younglings should, perhaps, not be _quite_ so good at vanishing.

“Children are eager to learn.” Padawan Skywalker replies, returning her dark brown gaze to him. “They aren’t yet afraid of _knowing_.”

“Afraid, you think the Jedi are?” Yoda inquires, ears drooping.

“I have lived my entire life in fear. I know what it looks like.” She speaks softly, but there is something unyielding beneath her whispery voice, like bedrock beneath shifting sand.

“And fear, what do we?” Yoda inquires sadly. “See that also, do you?”

“Ben once told me that the Jedi fear what they could be.” Shmi says. “But that isn’t what I see when you look at me, or him, for that matter.” Her mouth twists unhappily, and Yoda reminds himself that they are friends. His mind drifts to concerns of their attachment, their bias, but his heart looks at Shmi Skywalker and knows that her burden is not the fear or failure of letting go. Life has not been so kind to her as to have ever allowed her such selfish desires. “I think you look at us and see yourself reflected in our eyes, and in that reflection, I think you fear what you already are.”

Her accusation is spoken _without_ accusation, with nothing but calm understanding, but it is wounding nonetheless.

But the wound already existed, and he has sought her out now for one reason -

Because he already knows that.

He has finally accepted it.

And now it is time to do something about that.

~*~

The chamber Ben has been directed to for his therapy sessions is oval in shape, pale cream walls with a smooth stone floor that gives way to a sand garden, filled with artful patterns and a neutral rainbow of smooth stones. A circle of padded benches is arranged in the middle of the room, and a table already set for tea, and light spills in from an opaque window on the curved wall, making everything seem soft and warm. Potted frond trees add a splash of color and distraction to the room, and the scent of _soil-sand-green_ in and of itself is relaxing.

Ben has just settled himself on an unfairly comfortable cushion when the artfully embossed door slides open again and Quinlan Vos is admitted, looking painfully relieved to have new surroundings, at least until his gaze registers Ben’s presence. He has a few pieces of flimsi in his hands, the edges crinkled and nervously smoothed out again.

“Quinlan.” Ben greets neutrally.

“ _General_.” The teenling drawls, before striding over to the bench and flopping down inside Ben’s personal space, kicking his legs over the end of the bench and leaning against the human master. Ben flinches at the abrupt sting of cold that close contact to someone in the flush of the Dark Side exudes, but adjust quickly enough, given the teenlings clear need for contact at the moment. “I take it you had a hand in this?” He inquires, and thrusts the flimsi towards Ben, for all that his fingers tense possessively on the edges.

Ben studies it for a moment as his brain interprets the crude lines and bold swathes of color into a childish rendering of Quinaln Vos riding a flying mynock and holding a lightsaber up into the air, the blade the same yellow color as the eyes and facial stripe. A smiles tugs at his lips, and he gently lifts the first page to look at the second, which is evidently a self-portrait of a blue twi’lek, if the twi’lek in question were made of glitter.

“I don’t think I can take any credit for the…artistic ingenuity.” Ben remarks fondly, making his intentions clear as he carefully presses the flimsy back into Quinlan’s gloved hands.

“But she’s…. _here_.” Quinlan whispers, not meeting his gaze, for which Ben was unfairly relieved, given his instinctive reaction to the unfortunate change in color.

“She is.” Ben says. “I thought she might be able to help you find your way out of the Dark.”

“She’s a child.” Quinlan says sharply.

“Yes.” Ben replies. “And she’ll need you some day. Can you be what she needs, the way you are?”

“I’m powerful now.” Quinlan says. “I could protect her with this.” He holds open his hands, and crackling energy whirls around him in the Force, charged and miasmic.

“You’ve entered the Well of the Dark Side, Quin.” Ben murmurs. “And yes, it is powerful, but there is no kindness there. Which of those things do you think she needs more?”

“But _I_ need it.” Quinlan’s voice cracks.

Ben doesn’t push. The problem of the memories he has and the connection to the Dark Side are separate issues, but one fed the other. They’d have to deal with that first. All Ben needed to do now was plant the first seeds. Quinlan had overcome darkness once. He _could_ do it again.

“How much do you think we can get away with not telling our dear Healer?” Ben inquires, instead of continuing on their previous topic.

Quinlan looks up through his lashes, suspicious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I doubt we can avoid the issue of Time Travel without fabricating complete lies, and I have been strongly urged not to lie at this juncture. What I’d rather avoid, however, is explaining exactly who I am, when I’m from, and who the people we’ll have to talk about are. But all of that is a Hutt’s chance at fitness without your assistance, given that your predicament is more dire than mine.”

Quinlan glowers at him, yellow eyes shining, while he thinks about that. “Healers _are_ sworn to secrecy.” He says flatly, an edge of a hiss to his voice that sends shivers down Ben’s spine.

Ben had never truly understood were evil connected to the Dark Side, how it influenced it, because evil was not an absolute, but a perspective, and yet…there was something in the dark that was truly sinister, that _desired_ evil with what Ben would consider _intent_.

“Quinlan, we carry the death of our people and the fall of the galaxy inside us. It _broke_ you. I’m less concerned with their vows and more concerned with their spirit.” Ben murmurs, keeping himself as lax as he could with the teenling leaning against him, though his atrophied and surgically abused muscles were starting to tremble with the effort. “And what that information might drive them to do.” He adds, deciding he has to shift, and carefully maneuvers Quinlan with him so the padawan doesn’t feel rejected. Ben shoves a pillow between their hips and pulls Quinlan back into his side, letting himself lean in turn on the padawan and relieving the stress on his weak abdomen.

“Do you really think you can save them, General?” Quinlan purrs nastily. “You don’t have the best track record for saving people. Should I name a few?”

Ben did understand, however, that evil was not invulnerable. While Quinlan might know just where it hurt the worst, so did Ben.

“Aayla Secura.” Ben names for himself, and steels himself against the boys hard flinch. “She died on Felucia.” He says, unforgivingly. “One of unmourned thousands, shot in the back by someone who loved her and had no ability to stop himself. Should I name another?” Ben asks coldly.

“Shite.” Quinlan mutters, grinding his teeth and pulling away from Ben’s side, dropping his legs down to the floor, knuckles popping as he clenched his hands. “I-I…I can’t help it. I can’t _stop_ it.” He confesses desperately, curled into himself.

“We’ll learn to, Quinlan.” Ben says with certainty, dipping his head and catching the boys eyes. “We know there is a way.”

Quinlan had done it once. Ventress had done it all on her own.

Both of them tense when the door opens again, wary with anticipation, and the Soul Healer walks in sedately.

“Good afternoon, Master, Padawan.” She says. “I am Healer Ylar Kala.” She bows, and then moves to take her seat without fuss while Quinlan and Ben share a disturbed, uncertain look.

Golden fur with near-black stripes, a soft pink snout, and shining dark eyes, dressed in dark blue robes, the Caamasi Jedi regards them with gentle curiosity, waiting for them to establish their initial impression of her.

“Truly no offense is meant, Healer Kala,” Ben says with an air of disbelief, “But has the council lost their minds? And the circle of Healer’s right alongside them?”

Her pink snout twitches. “You are referring to the _menmii_ – the gift of my people to share memories.”

“Yep.” Quinlan snaps angrily. “You know, the sort of thing that got _me_ here.” His body brims with tension, and the air in the room grows cold, regardless of Ben’s own efforts to draw on the warm energy of the Temple.

“I have been duly warned against attempting any such practice in your therapy, gentlemen.” The Healer replies serenely. “But it is precisely my experience with sifting memory that is not my own that qualifies me to best help you deal with your difficulties in particular, Padawan Vos. And though it is unusual for one of my people to deal with traumatic memories for exactly the reasons you are concerned, we are also the most uniquely suited to do so – so long as our souls can bear it. I myself was selected as I have spent my entire career serving the Order of Shadows. Does that reassure you as to the foundations of my experience?” She addresses Ben, who sighs thinly.

Quinlan snorts derisively, hands moving jerkily as he smooths the pictures Aayla drew for him out over his lap.

“I’m afraid we can only wait and see, Healer.” Ben replies honestly.


	2. Chapter 2

Obi-Wan hovers outside the entrance to the small galley, sensing Luminara’s presence on the other side, and worries his lip. For two people stuck together on a not-very-large ship, the fact that he’d barely seen her since their arrival was really dampening his spirits, because he _liked_ Luminara.

But every time he’d sought her out for a spar she’d declined, and when he’d offered to join her in meditation, she’d seemed uncomfortable with his presence, and had managed to politely avoid him at almost every hour except meal-times.

Sighing, and preparing himself for another apologetic cold shoulder, Obi-Wan presses the dor key and strides into the galley, regardless of the eye-straining early hour. “Padawan Unduli, have I done something – what are you – _no_.” Obi-Wan scolds, darting over and rapping her fingers away from where she was clumsily binding a wrap around her wrist, which was discolored blue-ish brown.

The older padawan looks startles, and then sheepishly guilty. “Hi, Obi-Wan.” She smiles wincingly.

“Why are you doing this by yourself?” Obi-Wan asks, undoing the wrap which was tightened in the wrong places. He cradles her tender wrist carefully, frowning at the bruising. “This is _days_ old, why didn’t you see the Healer’s before we left?”

He pushes back her sleeve, revealing more bruises and scrapes along her arm, like she’d hit the floor very hard, or taken a tumble.

“Oh well….” Luminara says, royal blue eyes lifted away from him. “It’s nothing, really.” She tries.

Obi-Wan pauses, studying the older padawan in concern, and her face flushes a darker green as she continues to avoid looking him in the eye. With her good hand, she fusses with the edge of her head-dress, and Obi-Wan zeroes in on another small bruise at the back of her jaw. His stomach curdles, and he looks down at her wrist in his hands.

Obi-Wan is no stranger to hiding things from the Healers. He’d get into fights with other initiates, and he’d been too scared of being sent away to dare tell anyone what happened. So he’d pulled his sleeves down where he’d been grabbed too hard, and hid the winces when something a little more serious than bruises had twinged painfully, and he’d…avoided his friends till he got better.

“Luminara…”Obi-Wan says quietly. “Did…did someone hurt you?” He asks.

She jerks towards him, eyes wide in surprise, and her face flushes an even darker green, cheeks burning. “Oh, Obi-Wan, no! It’s not like that. It’s just…embarrassing. And we were warned not to do it.”

“Not to do what?” Obi-Wan picks up the wrap she has with his free hand, smoothing down an edge.

Luminara looks up towards the ceiling again. “Not to try and copy that mid-air redirection you performed without proper training and supervision.” She says lightly, voice very, very sheepish.

“You tried to copy me?” Obi-Wan repeats, baffled. “But…you prefer Soresu. I didn’t think you practiced Ataru.” Obi-Wan states.

“Eh... No.” Luminara agrees. “I don’t. Which is why I was warned not to try that, but…You have to admit that it was impressive, Obi-Wan. And I was hardly the only one.”

It’s Obi-Wan’s turn to blush. “Oh. Um. Thank you.” He mumbles, and then takes back up the task of wrapping her wrist properly. “But next time, maybe go to the Healer’s anyway?” He implores. “I’m good at basic field medicine, but I haven’t had time to train in Force Healing. That sprain is going to take awhile to get better.”

“You’re going to train in Force Healing?” Luminara lifts a brow.

“Yes?” Obi-Wan replies hesitantly. “Master Ni Hiella insisted on it.”

“You are just full of surprises, Padawan Kenobi.” She remarks, bemused. “And thank you, for…” She looks down at her wrist, as he tightens the binding, and winces a little at the pain. “…that.” She finishes tensely.

“Of course.” Obi-Wan nods. “Now, would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.” Luminara sighs, posture slumping a little from her typical mirial strictness. “There should be a box of blue tea I brought for my master, can you dig it out?”

“Blue?” Obi-Wan questions, prepping the kettle. “Is it a blend from your homeworld?”

“It is.” Luminara informs him. “Mirial doesn’t have much offer after the Trade Federation all but stripped her of her resources, but there are a few things that still make it home. Master Vumoyo took me there for my first year of training as a padawan, so I could learn of my own culture, and select a personal discipline, if I wished to carry on the traditions.” Her fingers lift to her face, to the diamond tattoo’s on her chin. She smiles a little, turning her face sweet. “It’s funny, but it was in embracing the fact that I was Mirialan that made me feel more like a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan understands the soft pride in her eyes exactly.

“My master is raising me in the manner of Mandalore. More or less, but it’s….”Obi-Wan pauses, trying to find the right words. “It’s such a relief, to touch that other life.”

“To know that it doesn’t change who you are.” Luminara agrees, eyes alight. “Being a Jedi or being something else. There was always some part of us as younglings that felt…”

“Lost?” Obi-Wan suggests, watching the water slowly curl with dark wisps of inky color, a minty scent rising in the air.

“Yes.” Luminara sighs gratefully, breathing in the steam. “Like a sacrifice was made for us, and we didn’t know the shape or weight of it, and so it gaped like an endless wound, full of every other possibility.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know other people – other Jedi – felt like that too. They fall contentedly quiet, and Obi-Wan pours the tea when Luminara assures him it’s properly steeped.

“Do you still feel like that?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Less and less every day.” Luminara replies. “You?”

“I don’t know.” Obi-Wan says. “Sometimes, I guess. Sometimes I feel like I know who I am and what I’m meant to be, and other times…other times I feel like I’m just pretending, and that at any moment someone will find out and…and…I don’t know. There’s just…dread.”

“Hmm…”Luminara closes her eyes thoughtfully, thinking that over, and Obi-Wan’s grateful to have someone who isn’t three lifetimes more experienced than he is to turn to for advice. “Well, from a certain point of view, I think almost everyone is pretending, Obi-Wan. If you pretend long enough, does it really matter? Or does who you’re pretending to be just become who you are?” She asks, opening her eyes and looking at him over her teacup.

“But isn’t it wrong?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Wrong for who?” Luminara questions. “Does it _feel_ wrong?”

“It feels…” Obi-Wan tries to grasp it, and can’t. “Overwhelming, sometimes.”

“Oh.” Luminara smiles sweetly again. “Obi-Wan, that’s just what growing up feels like.”

“All the time?” He whines.

“I’m afraid so.” Luminara commiserates, and then takes a sip of tea that stains her lips with color. “That you’re self-aware is a good sign though. It puts you parsecs ahead of some of your peers. And mine.” She adds, grumbling.

Obi-Wan groans peevishly and drinks his tea.

~*~

“Master Yoda,” Shaak Ti keeps her voice as serene and patient as she can. “What have you done with my padawan?”

“Done, what have I?” Yoda inquires in turn, lookin askance at her from his hoverchair. Shaak Ti lowers her chin, leveling him with the look of the unfooled.

“I have it on various authorities that you walked my padawan out of the gardens this morning and no one has seen her since.”

“Patience, I advise.” Yoda replies sagely, eyes half-lidded in a way that made him seemed ancient and all-knowing and awed many a youngling.

“Master Yoda, it is half past the night bell. Regardless of her age, she is still a padawan – _my_ padawan – and that means she should have returned to our quarters. Or else reported to me why she has not done so.” Shaak Ti explains levelly, watching his ears twitch and his eyes narrow further, cranky that she does not play to his ruse. “As she has not, I can only presume that she is therefore intensely preoccupied. What have you done with her?”

“Reverence, you used to have.” Yoda grouses, scrunching up in his chair and moodily tugging his robe tighter. “ _Interrogate_ your elders, you never would have. Changed, you are, and like it, I do not.”

“You do not have to like it, Master Yoda.” Shaak Ti replies, her voice dropping an octave at the unexpected strike of hurt that makes her want to draw away.

His ears bob, and his eyes widen, and Shaak Ti reflexively grabs his stick before he manages to prod at her lekku. “Master Yoda!” She scolds.

“Like it,” He repeats her. “I do not have to. Respect it, I do. Good for you, this change has been.”

Hurt fades with surprise, and perhaps that old reverence he speaks of is not so gone, blooming now beneath her breastbone, soft and awed at his regard. “Good for me, not so much.” He adds more grouchily, and Shaak Ti laughs, flashing teeth.

“Perhaps so, but you still have not answered my question, Master Yoda. Where is my padawan and what, do tell, is she up to?” Shaak Ti implores.

He tries to remain cantankerous and bitterly old, but Master Yoda is not, in his heart, an unhappy soul. A sly smile curls on his face, ears perking up and eyes lidding slightly. “Unconventional, your padawan is, but wise. Challenge convention, she does not, as others do. Quiet, she is. Quiet, her changes have been, but brought change to us, she has.”

“Master Yoda…” Shaak Ti trills low in her throat, folding her hands together to keep from clenching them.

“Do more, she could, hm?” Yoda remarks, pleased with himself. “If less quiet, she was?”

“My padawan enjoys quiet.” Shaak Ti says.

“Hmph.” Yoda grumbles. “As enjoy convention, I did.”

“So you’ve punished her for upsetting the Temple?” Shaak Ti asks lowly, pulling back enough that she does not deliberately loom over the wizened Jedi in a predatory manner.

“Punishment, it is not.” Yoda replies, shaking his head. “An honor, most consider it.”

“Consider what?” Shaak Ti asks flatly, her patience failing.

“To the Council of Reassignment,” Yoda cackles. “an appointment of a chair.”

“You have given my padawan  _what_?”


	3. Chapter 3

It is important for a healer to enter the room without expectations. When the Master of Shadows had come to her with the strictest of confidence and casually mentioned – after laying down a list of strict and unusual rules regarding this particular case – that it would be the Trial of her career, Ylar Kala had pondered, but still had stepped down that path without anticipating what might come. It was not about her, after all, but about her patients.

Ylar was as well qualified as any Soul Healer could be – and well qualified was the minimum consideration for this particular case, she had been warned – She had served the Order of Shadows since her knighting. She had raised a padawan to do the same, and her padawan had raised a grandpadawan. She has dealt with trauma, with Shadows in the midst of a Fall, with those who have been so long and deep undercover that they question who they are and what their purpose is, with survivors guilt, with the aftermath of torture, with depression, with anger, with grief, she has heard horror stories from one end of the galaxy to another.

And she has healed them. Not all of her patients were the same for the healing, but she gave them something they could not give themselves, and that was enough.

In most cases.

No Healer could ever claim to have never lost a patient, and that, too, she has faced.

She had been told she could take no padawan. She could see no other patients. She could not consult with any other Healer, unless they too were vetted by the Reconciliation Council, and even in such case, she would first have to explain to them where she felt she was struggling with the task.

Pride at first had burned, at that stricture, but it was in the depth of the lines around Master Yaddle’s mouth and the quiet moving in the mists of the Force that told her that it was not for the patient that that rule existed, but for _her_.

For whatever reason, and like never before, they were concerned that this patient might undue her.

The mere idea made her fur stand on end, but she quelled it. If they must bear whatever horrors haunted them, surely if she could help them carry the burden, then that was all that mattered.

She had meditated and mulled over the assignment for days before accepting. It deserved such consideration.

Master Yaddle had met with her once more, upon her acceptance, and given her only one small parting of wisdom.

“Do not think it is madness.”

Ylar does not think, perhaps, that the Reconciliation Council, or the Master of Shadows, realize entirely how undermining and unnerving their vague proclamations and airs of mystery can be, and at that moment, she is only briefly irritated at their upsetting her equilibrium moments before she is due to see her patients for the first time.

Staring back at them now, meeting without flinching a pair of corrupted yellow eyes and a pair of earnest stormy blue-grey ones, she reminds herself of that.

 _Do not think it is madness_.

“It isn’t a delusion.” Master Naasade breaks the silence, after it drags long, looking at her with genuine concern. “Which probably isn’t as reassuring coming from me as it should be, but-“

“It’s not that, Master Naasade. I’m only…adjusting.” Ylar comments quietly, her soft nose twitching. “A delusion would be…simple, in comparison, in fact.”

He winces, around the eyes, his expression painfully wry. “Ah…I suppose it would be.”

He’s very polite, Master Naasade. Even when he is ridiculous.

Padawan Vos snorts, his short dreads springing around his face, and with his eyes closed, without the caustic burning energy flaring wildly within them, she focuses on the fact that for all of it, he is still just a child, caught in the midst this…unprecedented storm.

 _Unprecedented_? Her own inner voice questions her mental editing shrilly. _They have literally seen the end of our days_.

 _Yes_. Her more professional side replies. _And that is unprecedented_.

Flicking her ears to clear her mental musing, Ylar returns her focus outward, to the two wounded souls before her, and sets to work.

~*~

“Your anger will only exhaust you, Knight Gallia.” Master Rancisis says softly, carefully shifting his coils as he adjusts around her pacing.

“I am already exhausted, Master Rancisis.” Knight Gallia replies tersely. “The anger just gives it flavor.”

The councilor gives a hissing chuckle to that, and the knight deflates a little. “That I do not doubt.” He comments, offering her grace in his amusement. “But you would do better, young knight, to _rest_.”

The young woman pauses, her bronze and grey robes swaying as she stands still, and rubs at her face with one hand. She does look tired, her eyes smudged underneath with blue, her mouth tightly wound. “It eats at me, Master Rancisis.” The knight admits somberly, grudgingly. “When I am there it is a shadow I cannot escape and when I am not it haunts me, my thoughts picking away at the problem and finding nothing! And dragging my padawan through it! I want to _fix_ this, Master, whatever malevolence it is, and I…I’m _failing_.”

Oppo sighs, a chittering sound that most of the uninitiated found slightly skin-crawling, or feather-raising, depending on the species. “You carry a great burden, and you have carried it far longer than we ever knew, Adi Gallia.” He bows his head to her, in respect, and her tension softens at his regard. “Do not count that as failure that a solution does not immediately present itself. You have not failed for it has not won, and it will not, so long as you stand against it, and that, you do every day and you do it well. You have a remarkable strength, and this Order is better for it.”

“Thank you, Master Rancisis.” The tholotian bows her head, and Oppo considers the problem, threading his many fingers through his long silver hair as he does so.

“But I was not chiding when I said you should rest.” He says. “It will do you, and that padawan of yours, some good.”

“Idleness has never been my preference.” Knight Gallia remarks impertinently.

“Which earned you the role you now occupy.” The thisspiasian comments lightly. “But did I speak of idleness? No. You have a padawan, take her somewhere. Solve some other, easier problem, and when you return, perhaps you will return with fresh eyes, and we will try again anew.”

“But my duties-“

“Are to your student, and to yourself as well.” Oppo chides, voice rasping. “The Senate and the Jedi can survive without you for a few short weeks, don’t you think? If anything truly dire is necessary, I believe _I_ am up to the task.”

“I would never doubt you.” Knight Gallia replies, a gleam of humor in her eyes, and relief shadowing her face starkly.

“Ah, how flattering.” Oppo comments, warmed by her charm. For a woman who dealt daily with politicians and legislators, she was refreshingly concise and straightforward. “And I should be flattered further when you actually _heed_ my advice, Knight Gallia.”

She hesitates, briefly. “Of course, Master Rancisis.” She concedes, and he is warmed double by his victory.

~*~

“Qui-Gon!”

Lifting his gaze to the warm, false sky above him, Qui-Gon quietly gathers himself and thanks the Force that he hadn’t just crushed the fragile tree he was replanting when Mace Windu snapped out his name like that.

“Mace, you are two decades my junior,” Qui-Gon says curtly, turning from the garden bed he was kneeling in and brushing soil off his hands, enjoying, a bit, the rich feel of it between his palms. “You should not be calling after me like a crèchemaster after an errant youngling.”

“If you actually answered when I called, I wouldn’t have to.” The young master replies in clipped tones, giving him a dirty look and crossing his arms.

Qui-Gon frowns, patting his pockets and spreading dirt across his robes in an effort to locate his comm-link.

“You aren’t even carrying it, are you?” The harun kal accuses, one brow lifting in sardonic amusement as his hands drop back to his sides.

“It would appear I am not.” Qui-Gon replies, lifting a brow right back. “What can I do for you, Master Windu?”

“Nothing official, so relax your spine, you beheamoth.” Mace says shortly. “The entire temple is convinced that you and I loathe each other because every time I walk up to you, you look like you’re about to start swinging.”

“Do I?” Qui-Gon asks lightly. “How odd.”

Mace snorts, and Qui-Gon grins, feeling light in his unlikely friend’s presence for once. He’s been feeling lighter more often of late and it…in some ways, it aches, to be moving on from his last padawan, from the shadow of everything that happened, but in others…it’s good. It’s _good_.

He’s still not entirely certain what he’s _doing_ with his new padawan, but she never fails to send some small quip or other about her progress at the end of each day, and every corresponding afternoon seeing the light on his comm-link blink to remind him of her missive brings him joy.

The envoy to Moia had been doing much sightseeing, while Moia’s medical practices and technology was under review, and she had taken to sending him holo pics of their various activities. He may have doubts, but her certainty of their relationship never did seem to waver, and that was good too.

“What is it then, Mace?” Qui-Gon inquires.

“I was hoping to ask you to look after my cacti collection for awhile. Depa and I are returning to the field.” The younger master says, looking slightly tense about the prospect.

“It’s been long enough.” Qui-Gon comments. “Shadowing a councilor is all well and good, but fieldwork is essential. Particularly as she nears knighthood. She hasn’t had enough experience to take solo missions, and that is perhaps overdue.”

“I’m aware.” Mace grimaces. “I didn’t _ask_ to be made the youngest member of the High Council in the last thousand years.”

“No, but you deserved it, you busybody.” Qui-Gon remarks, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Mace scowls at him, and Qui-Gon realizes he’s just rather left a stain on the other mans tunics.

He doesn’t apologize. Mace could do to loosen up a little.

“Anything else?” Qui-Gon inquires, as Mace futily tries to brush off the dirt.

“My teaching rotation, if you would be so generous.” Mace replies irritably. “Seeing as _your_ padawan is preoccupied and leaving you at loose ends.”

“ _Which_ teaching rotation?” Qui-Gon frowns, having learned from experience that it is, in fact, best to ask questions now than suffer later. Tahl had tricked him into her rotation of Adolescent Health, Sex, and Relationships once and it was never happening again, qualified master of the Living Force or not.

“It’s the six session rota on Cross-Cultural Literacy.” Mace replies.

Qui-Gon blinks. “As in…how to talk to strangers one-osk-one? How in all sith hells did you get maneuvered into teaching that? It’s a youngling’s class. It’s generally taught by _senior padawans_.”

“I may…have…. _irked_ Knight Gallia, by behaving in a manner that could be considered…undiplomatic, when interacting with the Senate Tax Assessment Board. Master Syfo-Dyas was perhaps remiss when he requested my assistance.” The councilor admits grudgingly.

Qui-Gon lets out a loud guffaw before he’s able to contain himself, and Mace scowls at him deeply. “As if _you_ have never upset our resident diplomat.”

“Never so direly, Master Windu.” Qui-Gon chortles. “On that front, I _know_ better.”

“Oh, on _that_ front.” Mace snipes. “Will you do it?”

Qui-Gon basks in his own mirth for another beat or two, and then eyes his shorter friend. “I could be obliged, though you may consider that Knight Gallia will not be particularly pleased at you ducking out of her….creative reprimand.”

“I will deal with that as I must.” Mace says shortly, looking displeased.

“As you will.” Qui-Gon shrugs, thinking that Mace could serve to look less displeased. Knight Gallia, though fearsome, was hardly unpleasant company.

“How gracious.” Mace drawls.

“You’re quite welcome.” Qui-Gon grins unrepentantly.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m going to be very blunt with you, gentlemen,” Healer Kala says, in the soothing almost-croon that caamasi have. “If therapy were a pool, we would generally wade into the shallows for quite some time before ever broaching the subject of the deeper waters.”

“Uh-huh?” Quinlan remarks, a crinkle between his eyes as he gives her a puzzled look. Ben merely lifts a brow, having the feeling that he knows exactly where she is going with that statement.

“I’m not entirely sure _any_ of your issues could be classified as shallow waters, and even in they did, I’m not sure the two of you have the patience for little steps.” She remarks, looking at both of them calmly, which is in itself impressive. Ben and Quinlan had laid out the bare framework of their…experience, during their first session, and allowed the Healer to…absorb that, before they met again. The largest galactic conflict in the last thousand years, the return of the Sith, the genocide against the Jedi, and the four years of hermitage isolation interspersed with rebellious activities and severe bouts of depression.

“That’s a fair assessment.” Ben says, and Quinlan nods, slouching against the far end of the bench today, idly flipping through more pictures from little Aayla Secura.

“Quinlan?” Healer Kala inquires, encouraging his participation.

“Fire away.” Quinlan drawls at her, miming a blaster shot in Ben’s direction. Ben takes the petty jab in stride with a quiet sigh. Quinlan is angry with him, but if Quinlan is to be angry, Ben is by far the easiest target, and perhaps the safest. Anakin had often been the same, and at least directed at his Master, his anger had been…containable, with minimal damage.

The caamasi Healer also takes his attitude in stride, and looks between them for a considering moment.

“Let’s try a small exercise.” She says. “Something grounding. I want each of you to tell me four things; One thing that is different about your other time, one thing that is the same, one thing that you miss, and one thing that you have here that you did not have there, or then. You don’t have to explain anything about them, just…name them.”

“But those memories aren’t _mine_.” Quinlan protests.

“No.” She agrees. “But that experience now is. Try and evaluate it through your own eyes, and find something that _you_ feel, that doesn’t belong to someone elses impression.”

Quinlan hesitates. “I don’t – I don’t know if I can do that. It’s not – it’s all jumbled up and I’m not….” He shakes his head, frustrated and lost, and the emotions roil around him in his agitation.

“Quinlan.” Ben says softly. “What’s Aayla’s favorite color?”

The padawan snaps out of the spiral, looking up at him. “It’s blue.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

Ben feels his lips twitch. “Really?” He inquires.

“Really.” Quinlan deadpans. “She’s _six_.” He reminds Ben.

“Ah.” Ben say, glancing at the Healer watching their interaction quietly. He looks back to Quinlan. “Settled now?”

Quinlan scowls, but nods. Ben nods absently in turn and focuses on Healer Kala. “I had wanted to broach the subject of intervening more directly in Quinlan’s…situation. While I cannot advocate to make him forget - ” Quinlan scoffs bitterly, knowing too well why they both know that won’t work – “I wondered if it might be beneficial to consider helping him create….partitions, in his mind.”

The Healer considers that suggestion, running a finger absently along the rim of her teacup. “You’re speaking of the Room of Doors technique?” She inquires.

“Doorways can be dangerous, particularly considering that he has, unfortunately, more than just a shade of _me_ rattling about in there.” Ben says.

“His lightsaber tended to fall out of his hands at every opportunity.” Quinlan comments scathingly. “And into the hands of others.”

“I wasn’t quite that bad.” Ben says mildly.

“Your troop commander modified his belt to attach a lightsaber clip because he was always picking up after you.” Quinlan retorts. “You may not have been as bad as – as your padawan when it came to having to replace it, but you were far worse when it came to keeping it out of the hands of others.”

Ben winces slightly, and acknowledges that perhaps Quinlan had a point.

“Back on subject,” Ben says, looking back to their healer. “I was thinking something more along the lines of windows. And in some cases…windows with bars. And there are still a few memories that could do to be…blurred.”

“I’d agree to that.” Quinlan says lowly, rubbing at his temple. “I wouldn’t mind getting – getting the half-cut apprentice out of my head entirely.” Quinlan catches himself before he names names, for which Ben is distinctly grateful.

“While I can agree with the benefits of such a measure,” Healer Kala says neutrally. “That is an intimate and dangerous procedure. Even if I could obtain the permission of the Reconciliation Council and the Circle of Healers, I am concerned that you and I are not nearly close enough in trust to attempt such a feat.”

“He could do it-“

“I could do it –“

They speak at the same time, and then eye each other, before sharing a nod and a grimace.

“And that would be twice as dangerous.” Healer Kala remarks in concern. “You can enter a loop of memory inside his head and do the both of you irreparable damage.”

Ben winces at that, knowing it to be true, and strokes at his beard in contemplation, somber.

“I trust him.” Quinlan says, looking dully at the healer and recalcitrant to be admitting such a thing. “I mean, I hate him, but that’s not really _me_ , you know? But I trust him utterly, and that – that is me. Well, mostly me. A lot of people did, and they weren’t _wrong_. No entirely.”

“I’d like you to think very carefully about that, Quinlan.” She says. “And not to decide on it today. I’ll address the proposition to the council, but I have my reservations, as should you. And you, Ben, should do your research on the concept before we even consider the idea.”

“I’ve done it before.” Ben murmurs.

“Successfully?” She inquires.

“Yes.”

“On whom?” She asks. “If that is something you feel you can tell me?”

Ben smiles faintly, recognizing her curiosity and disapproval warring with her professionalism and the knowledge that if anyone was going to enter Quinlan mind, it almost _has_ to be Ben. Quinlan was in the thrall of the Dark Side. On that level of connection, he could easily take anyone into the Dark with him. “Myself.”

It had been the only way to reconcile what had happened, and even then it took years to find a balance, to add angles to his perception, to his truth, that would allow him to function as a human being, pruning and realigning his own experiences into something…bearable. It was how he’d managed to part Anakin from the Fall enough to say his name again, enough to tell stories to Luke without breaking to pieces.

“I will take that into consideration.” She says softly. “Nonetheless, I’d like you both to attempt the exercise I’ve proposed. Just four things.”

“You first.” Quinlan demands, giving Ben a prodding push with his foot. Ben winces against the prod to his bruise-like abdomen, and gives the kiffar a narrow look under his lashes, locking on to the edge of cruelty gleaming in a yellow haze. It’ll fade in a moment. It always did, but Ben kept himself aware of those moment when Quinlan slipped.

“Medical progress. Bacta truly revolutionized recovery from injuries such as mine. That’s different.” Ben remarks, taking his gaze off his fellow patient. “The food in the dining halls is exactly the same.” Ben earns a snort and a pressed-down smile from his companions for that, and hesitates on what to say next. Something he misses, and something he has now that he didn’t have then. “I – I miss my best friend.” He says thinly, grief welling at the barest acknowledgement of how much absence there was in his life here. “And I have a future now, that I didn’t have then.” He finishes, reminding himself of that, of how truly, enormously, remarkable that prospect was.

“Quinlan?” Healer Kala prompts.

The kiffar teenling frowns, staring off in thought as he tried to see those memories in his head objectively. “The Jedi aren’t soldiers.” He says. “That’s different, for me. I – I thought I kept myself…apart from it, somehow, then, but I realize now that it was still…so much a part of who we were. And it shouldn’t have been, but it was.” He swallows, looking young and bitter. “The robes are the same. Jedi fashion sense, and uh…lack thereof doesn’t change much.” He tries to brush of melancholy with a joke, and that is pure Quinlan Vos. “I miss…I miss the love of my life.”

Ben winces, both for the admittance and for the clear distinction there that Quinlan was talking of himself, in the future. It wasn’t a terrible admittance – it could be twenty years or forty or sixty, given Jedi’s lifespans, but it gave the Healer a narrower time-frame for their horrible future than he would have liked to offer.

“But I have my Master back again.” Quinlan finishes. “I’m not so anxious to be rid of him this time around, you know? I could do to be a padawan for a few extra years. Maybe he’ll actually succeed in drilling caution and good sense into my head if he’s given a proper go of it.”

“Unlikely.” Ben remarks on instinct, before closing his eyes and scolding himself, because this was Quinlan at sixteen, and not Quin at twenty-six, or thirty-two.

The padawan laughs anyway, grin hanging ruefully around his mouth. “Yeah.” He agrees. “Not likely. But he’s at least got the chance.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Is she angry at him?”

“I think it’s a courting gesture.”

“It looks painful.”

Sian Jeisel took the breath out of his lungs, literally, squeezing him in an iron-like hug the moment he entered the courtyard. Her lanky stature clearly deceived the amount of strength she had.

But, for all that he was going to be bruised later, the hug was warm, and the care she felt for him latched onto him in the Force, enhancing the gesture with a basking glow that Obi-Wan absorbed gratefully.

“You’re going to make me cry.” He mutters against her neck, trying not to end up with her braid in his mouth.

“I missed you, you idiot.” Sian says.

“ ‘m not an idiot.” Obi-Wan grumbles.

“You left me here with Master Vumoyo.” Sian growls. “Without you and Padawan Unduli, _I_ was the senior padawan!”

Obi-Wan snickers against her shoulder, and she finally releases him.

“I’m glad you’re back.” She says.

“I aim to please.” Obi-Wan bows primly, earning a laughing snort from his friend before everyone else decides it is safe enough to come forward and greet his arrival.

“Thank you for cheering me up, Padme.” Obi-Wan says, when the young Nubian legislator darts in for her own hug. “Your art skills are very respectable, even if the content is anything but.”

“I beg your pardon, Padawan Kenobi, but surely you are mistaken.” The ten-year old huffs, her curls springing around her head like a crown. “The content was completely respectable. Trashy romance novels are a universal co-culture understood by numerous species across the galaxy. Visual representations of the theme therein, therefor, should in fact be held in the highest esteem as progress towards galactic unification.”

Obi-Wan has to cover his mouth to hold in his laugh, and Sian shrieks low in her throat for all that she tries to hold it in. Even Luminara’s face twitches with repressed mirth.

Obi-Wan catches the eyes of Satine Kryze, and his amusement dims at the aloof, somewhat hurt look she gives him, before nodding with polite grace and turning away.

Guiltily, he recalls that he never did reply to her message.

~*~

“Uncle.”

“I’m aware.” Plo Koon replies, to his nieces mild entreaty, both of them feeling the pull of the Force in their bones like a wind drawing into a single, gravitous point. That point being, of all things, Padawan Shmi Skywalker.

It is difficult to say where, exactly, a Kel Dor is looking, given the protective filters they wear over their eyes, and so they are more subtle than most who are, at the moment, glancing in the womans direction.

Knight Sha Koon taps her fingers idly on the tabletop, as they watch Padawan Skywalker cross the dining hall, a trio of datapads tucked under her arm, tray in hand, and approach elderly Master B’una, the Master of the Crèche, where he sat alone.

She sets her tray down with a click directly across from the duros, neatly places the datapads off one corner of it, and then folds the drape of her tabbards underneath her as she sits, straight-backed as any royal of Alderaan, and lights him with her sharp gaze.

“That should be interesting.” Sha remarks.

“Should it?” Plo questions his niece, his intonation perhaps wry with amusement.

“In spite of Master Yoda’s appointment, I heard she has yet to actually speak to any member of the Council of Reassignment.” Sha reports, and Plo does not inquire as to his nieces sources. She is well liked among her peers, and her youth provides her a lack of intimidation that the typical Kel Dor bearing inspires. She is not yet quite so tall enough to tower over almost every other being in the Temple. “She has, however, spoken in depth with almost every initiate and youngling in the crèche and spent the better part of several days methodically digging her way through the Reassignment archives. Madame Nu likes her.”

“Does it surprise you that she seeks to be well-informed?” Plo inquires. “She may have come from a place of deprivation, little one, but a lack of education should never be mistaken for a lack of intelligence.”

“I know that, uncle.” Sha sighs. “I do not doubt her intelligence. What I find interesting is where she chooses to delve for information, and how.”

“She prefers to hear it from people, than from cold data.” Plo Koon remarks.

“Does that not color the facts with bias?”

“Of course it does.” Plo replies, reaching over to lay his hand across his niece’s tapping fingers. They twitch, and still, and she hums apologetically for the idle habit. “But people will also tell her far more than the codified facts ever will.”

“I suppose.” Sha remarks absently, observing the flat staring contest between Master B’una and his unlikely new colleague. “Though whether that will help her or hinder her remains to be seen. The Council of Reassignment was not pleased at her unorthodox appointment. There was a report attached to her assignment, did you know, Uncle?” Sha turns to him, her presence carefully contained. “Her appointment was based upon a special assignment regarding that report, only its contents appeared to be classified.”

Plo does, of course, know exactly what that report contains. It’s author was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“I trust you haven’t been attempting to open that classified report?” He inquires softly, knowing too well his niece’s less than reputable skills and inclinations in regard to data-slicing. He adored her, of course, but that did not mean she was not, occasionally, troublesome.

“Would I do such a thing?” She replies innocently, and he can feel the intent of her focus.

This conversation has been carefully maneuvered. It was her way of asking for something, of testing the waters, before she dared diving in.

As much as the Jedi may disdain politics, there were circles within circles of such things in the Temple, especially in _this_ Temple, so close to the heart of the Galactic Senate. Certain rules had to be adhered to, procedures followed, examples made, performances enacted for the sake of the politics they so deeply disliked. They all had their parts to play.

And their small rebels did too.

He squeezes her hand. “It cannot be _seen_ , little one. Do you understand? Shmi Skywalker has a purpose to fulfill, and we must ensure she is able to do so. It is…vital.”

Sha regards him quietly for a minute, no doubt her mind whirling like fireworks, like a thousand sparks flashing and dying in a nights sky until a picture is formed, burned into the eyes in afterimage, real only in the echo.

“I would never dream of obstructing her work.” Sha says, almost petulantly, and Plo frowns, her pretense a little too much. Her fingers twitch, recognizing her own error.

“ _You_ are not whom concerns us.” Plo replies neutrally, releasing her hand.

Sha nods. “Of course, Uncle Plo.” She turns, rising to leave, and bows familiarly at him. “Thank you.”

“As always, my little Sha.” Plo rumbles.

~*~

“Miss Kryze?” Obi-Wan calls, having excused himself from supper as quickly as he could be extracted from the conversation following Satine’s departure, ultimately only succeeding with Sian’s assistance. Obi-Wan did manage to keep himself from actually chasing the daughter of the Duke, though his stride had been a bit of a stretch.

She pauses, head turning slightly back, so he can see the curve of her jaw and the shine of one eye, clearly in the midst of deciding whether or not she was actually going to give him the time or attention he was asking for. Obi-Wan pauses too, once he’s reached a reasonable distance from which to speak, without corwding her. He waits.

Taking a sharp inhale, she turns, expression neutrally severe, which was the height of mandalorian courtesy.

“ _Ni ceta par ner uur.  Ni…. gar gaa'tayl, a ni shi nayc kar'taylir meg at sirbur_.” Obi-Wan says, struggling to explain why he hadn’t replied to her missive, even though hers, more so than almost anyone’s, had soothed something inside the cracking edges of his spirit when he had desperately needed it. “ _A ni ru'kir ganar sha diryc sirbur vor entye_.” Obi-Wan adds, meeting her eyes with sincere gratitude. “ _Vor entye_.” He emphasizes.

Her gaze flicks between his eyes, judging his words and his spirit, and she finally gives a small nod, a faint blush rising to her face. “I felt rather silly you know.” She said with a sniff. “Offering that up and…well – you didn’t say anything! I thought I’d made a fool of myself. I am the daughter of the Duke of Mandalore. I _don’t_ make a fool of myself, Padawan Kenobi.” She says sternly, scowling when her words only bring a smile to his face.

“You didn’t.” Obi-Wan swears. “I promise you didn’t. It truly did mean a lot to me. Just knowing that someone out there could…feel what I felt. Could understand.” He braves stepping closer, and she nods quickly, allowing him to fall into step with her as she kept walking.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” She asks, glancing quickly at his face and then away, as the view through the collumns of the walkway.

“I’m…I’m not actually supposed to.” Obi-Wan hesitates. “It’s…complicated?”

“What am I going to do?” Satine asks, rolling her eyes. “Tattle on you to the Jedi Order?”

Obi-Wan’s smile stretches. “Maybe you _would_.” He accuses playfully.

“Uh!” She protests, huffing. “Maybe I should, if you’re going to be like that!”

Obi-Wan laughs, and she shakes her head, forcing her own smile down. They fall quiet, just walking. Moia Arasia is beautiful from every angle, and Obi-Wan still likes how sweet the air seems on a natural world.

“Do you…”He starts, feeling his insides squirm unnamably as he attempts to convey his thoughts. “Do you know the saying about a Jedi’s lightsaber?” He asks.

“The lightsaber is the life of the Jedi who wields it.” Satine recites. “I think some mandalorians feel the same about their blasters.” She adds dryly.

“I think blasters are uncivilized.” Obi-Wan retorts. “At least unless you’re as good with one as Fett.”

Every act with a weapon, every consequence, Obi-Wan believed, should be a deliberate choice, and not just an act of chaos and damage that will be as it was wont to be. If you have to hurt someone, you should damn well be doing it deliberately.

“It’s more than…” Obi-Wan adds. “It’s more than that, though. Lightsabers can’t just be built. It takes the Fore to make them, and it takes a crystal to focus them. Adagen crystals were….almost alive, in the Force. Record has it that they sang. But Adegan is extremely rare. Kyber isn’t the same, but it’s still….attuned to the Force, each one uniquely so. A Jedi can’t just use any chunk of crystal for their lightsaber. For Adegans, it has to choose you, and for Kyber, it has to be attuned to the Force in the same way as the wielder. They focus the Jedi as well as they focus the Force, and the laser that makes the blade. So for a Jedi, your lightsaber isn’t just a weapon. It’s an extension of who you are.”

Obi-Wan runs a hand absently over the hilt on his belt, but doesn’t draw it.

“To take a Jedi’s lightsaber, then, it’s….it’s a violation.” Obi-Wan says.

Satine watches him carefully, keeping in step, but doesn’t interrupt.

“My master has more than one. Some Jedi do – some wield two, or two in a staff, but he…he gave up his old lightsaber when he returned to the Temple, and he built a new one. Before he claimed me, he was…no one really knows what he was doing, out in the galaxy. He was a Jedi Shadow, and they…”Obi-Wan struggles to explain, hands trying to shape the nature of what he feels but can’t explain. “He suffered.” Obi-Wan finally says, thinking no other explanation could make the point as clearly as that simple statement. “He didn’t get rid of the blade, he just…tucked it away.”

Obi-Wan swallows.

“I have a friend, um, another Padawan and he…he has the gift, to…to touch something, and see the memories that object holds. Everyone was so curious about my master, about where he came from, about….and Quinlan can’t let a curiosity go. He’s a jerk, and he just couldn’t leave well enough alone.” Obi-Wan scrubs at his face, feeling his eyes burn again, though far more steady now than he had been  few weeks ago. “I gave him the passcode to our quarters and he went rifling through my masters things and he….he took my masters old lightsaber.” ObiWan grinds his teeth, and stops walking. Satine stops with him, waiting. Listening.

“The memories hurt him. Badly.” Obi-Wan whispers hoarsely. “And my master found him, and he was trying to help him, but, but another Master thought – thought that Quinlan had been hurt _by_ my master, and he attacked him. He nearly killed him, and….and my master nearly killed him right back, because – because he startles badly, you know? He gets – he gets lost sometimes, about where he is, and he was in a war and it was-“

“Battle response.” Satine offers, eyes somber with understanding.

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan nods, taking a shaky breath.

“So my friend lied to me and got hurt, and now he’s….he’s not okay. And my master nearly died, and now I’m not allowed to train with him unless, unless the council says so, and they aren’t going to let me for at least three months, because they think he’s….I – I don’t even know. They’re mad at him for being…what he is, I guess. They act like he’ll attack me.”

“He could.” Satine says softly, sorrily. “He wouldn’t mean to, but if it is that bad-“

“But he _never_ has! He’s been nothing but kind to me, and they treat him like – they accused him of being a _Darksider_. Of training _me_ to be a Darksider, and I just felt…I just. How could they?” Obi-Wan demands, whirling a step away from her to pace, to vent against the cooling evening air. “My master may not be a model Jedi, but he has only ever tried to help the Temple. He – He loves the Jedi more than anyone I’ve ever seen. I think he loves them more than I do. And the council treats him like – like he’s some kind of – like he’s something to be afraid of.” Obi-Wan finishes, feeling drained. He turns back to find Satine looking at him, and their gazes lock for a minute.

“You do love them.” Satine says, folding her arms and glancing briefly away. A breeze loosens a few strands of silver-blonde hair, and she looks more young than regal. “They betrayed you, or disappointed you. Your friend, your Order, maybe even your master, because he isn’t here for you now. They betrayed you, and you love them.” She tells him, gaze all too knowing.

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan says, feeling young and not too regal himself. Feeling lost.

“It’s okay.” Satine says. “To still love them and yet feel betrayed.”

“I- I…” Obi-Wan struggles to protest that, somehow, without entirely knowing why he’s protesting at all. Because it doesn’t feel right? Because it _hurts_?

“Most of them won’t apologize. Some of them won’t even realize that maybe they have done something worth apologizing for. Some of them won’t even care.” Satine says, her lower lip trembling briefly before she bites down on it. “Or notice.” She adds, quieter and quieter. “But you love them?” She says, and this time it is a question.

Obi-Wan stares back at her, a snarl of expanding emotions in his chest, and struggles to breath. “Yes.” He gets out, voice thin and thready.

“Then it doesn’t matter, really.” She says. “They’ll hurt you. They’ll betray you. They won’t always return your love, but you love them. That makes them _yours_.” She says. “And that’s what you hold on to, when everything else…” She lifts and drops her hands helplessly, and Obi-Wan gets it. “That’s the nature of loving a people, of loving something bigger than you are, as opposed to loving a person.”

Obi-Wan can feel a shiver run from head to toe, and steps back towards her, something warm curled beneath the ball of snarling hurt in his chest. “Mandalore and the Jedi.” He sighs shakily, ruefully, resignedly.

Satine quirks a brow, huffing in overburdened agreement. “Mandalore and the Jedi.” She agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A
> 
> Ni ceta par ner uur. Ni.... gar gaa'tayl, a ni shi nayc kar'taylir meg at sirbur. = I'm sorry for my silence. I...you helped me. I just didn't know what to say.
> 
> a ni ru'kir ganar sha diryc sirbur vor entye. = But i should have at least said thank you.
> 
> Vor entye = Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

“Is this the only time they’re letting you out of your room?” Ben asks, as Quinlan shuffles in, casting a glare behind him at the Temple Guardian assigned to escort him. Quinlan turns his yellow glare on Ben.

“What, you think they’re going to let me out and corrupt all those innocent young Force Sensitives?” Quinlan spits.

Ben rolls his eyes. “You aren’t a monster, Quinlan.” He retorts. “And I’d like an answer please.”

“You aren’t my commanding officer, General.” Quinlan mutters, striding past the benches and into the sand garden, his footsteps marring the patterns.

“But I am your friend.” Ben replies, and Quinlan twists with a snarl on his face. “No, you’re not!” He shouts. “You’re _his_ friend, not mine! I’m not _Quin_ and I never will be.”

“Then you are my padawans friend, and I care about you still.” Ben counters, moving off the bench and down the steps to the sand garden, stopping when his slippers scuff at the edge.

Quinlan screams wordlessly at him and shoves with the Force. He’s not focused enough, not _trained_ enough for lightning, but the wave builds like a storm, and shadows violent blue sparks as it buffets past Ben, who closes his eyes and lets it rile over his skin and slough past, unable to gets its claws in.

“This is all your fault!” Quinlan screams, pissed, and kicks at the marbled stones in the sand. They go flying, some of the bouncing off the far wall with cracking snaps.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Ben says mildly, and Quin hisses at him like a feral lothcat.

“They let me walk into the gardens, after the night bell.” Quinlan spits reluctantly. “But no, other than that I’m not allowed out of my room. It’s not safe.”

“You’re wearing an inhibitor.” Ben points out.

“And it works _so well_.” Quinlan replies scathingly, gesturing at Ben, and at the wave of darkness Quinlan just let loose, evidenced by the glitter of frost on the sand.

“To prevent accidents, yes.” Ben replies neutrally, tugging at the cuff on his own wrist. “That was no accident.”

“And that’s why they won’t let me out, even if I’m ready to claw at the walls.” Quinlan snaps. “You need to fix this. You need to fix it.” He demands. “Fix _me_.”

Ben sighs softly, trying to judge whether or not it was actually safe to approach the padawan now, or if he was likely to get his nose broken. Quinlan was a mercurial individual, and often unpredictable, before or after his Falling. He wouldn’t, in good conscience, recommend a Force Suppressor be used to let Quinlan wander around, and no Healer worth the title ever would either. For a Jedi to be completely cut off from the Force was…

Well, Ventress had done it to Ben once, after having already tortured him to the edge of madness. He remembers her putting that cursed mask on his face, remembers her leaving him to die, and he doesn’t remember much after that, before his escape. The memories scratch and jumble and slide away.

It’s two weeks of his life Ben is absolutely certain he does not _want_ to remember.

“I’ll see what I can do, Quinlan.” Ben promises, and the padawan scoffs, sickly yellow gaze full of bitterness, body language cringing and brimming with tension. Ben studies him for a moment, and then holds out a hand.

Quinlan catches the motion and jerks, his attention following the action, waiting to see what Ben was doing, and stares at the offered hand for a long minute.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Quinlan.” Ben says quietly, and the kiffar’s eyes shutter as he curls in on himself a little.

“You know I know that.” Quinlan says, not looking at him. “But I just…I don’t….my head...” He keens, like a wounded animal, reaching up and digging his fingers into his unkempt dreadlocks, yanking on his hair. “I know that you won’t hurt me. I _know_ that. But I just don’t believe it. I – I can’t.”

Ben’s throat closes with guilt, and he slowly retracts his hand.

~*~

“Teach me.” Satine demands, dropping suddenly down into the seat beside him at the breakfast table. Aside from Master Vumoyo, Padawan Unduli, and Senator Vallorum, who was already immersed in holocalls back to Coruscant, they are the only ones awake this early. The sky is a creamy pale yellow, shot through with wide bands of clouds, heavy with the expectation of rain.

Obi-Wan eyes her, chewing slowly, takes a sip of cold tea, and turns towards her fully as he swallows. “Good morning, Satine. You look well rested.”

“I slept terribly.” She replies, frowning at him.

“I’m well this morning.” Obi-Wan continues primly, and a light rises in her eyes, which shortly thereafter narrow crankily. “Thank you for asking.”

“Good morning, Obi-Wan.” She replies snippily. “You should teach me.”

“Teach you what?” Obi-Wan asks, offering her the plate of some form of puffy bread he can’t quite recognize the base ingredient of. She waves it away with a delicate hand and Obi-Wan offers her a bowl of berries instead. She glares impatiently at him and takes it, dishing herself a serving of fruit and dry yogurt.

“To fight.” Satine says. “The proper mandalorian way.”

Obi-Wan freezes, shocked, and stares at her. She pouts.

“You learned from the Manda’lor himself, _and_ you’re a Jedi.” Satine explains.

“I trained with Fett for a _month_ , Satine-“

“And your master is Mandalorian.” She adds, insistent.

“ _One_ month-“ He repeats, flustered.

“Please.” She grabs his hand, and Obi-Wan gets caught by her earnest, silver-blue gaze, boring into his own.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, and abruptly sneezes at the tickle of her perfume. She jolts away from him, surprised, and Obi-Wan lurches futilely over the cup he just sloshed. “Excuse me, so sorry.” Obi-Wan apologizes, hastily sopping up his juice with a cloth napkin.

Satine sighs at him, drooping a little. Obi-Wan gives up on the mess and lets his hands fall into his lap. “I thought you hated violence.” He says quietly.

“Violence is a disease.” Satine says forlornly. “But it is also a part of who my people are.” She shakes her head, struggling with an unseen burden. “And I love my people. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Ever. But I can’t rely forever on other people to protect me. To get hurt, protecting me. So I want to learn, and I want to learn properly.” She sighs. “The way you spoke of it – the way Fett taught you. If I have to fight, I don’t want to just be good enough to beat my opponent. I want to outclass them entirely. So I _don’t_ have to hurt them.”

 _It’s easier to kill a man than subdue him_. Obi-Wan remembers. _Your skill gives you your options_.

She’d rolled her eyes during that conversation, arguing fiercely that he was only making an excuse, that violence was violence, and begat violence. But she hadn’t quite had a ready counter for his argument that Jedi were peacekeeprs, not pacifists, and that it was their blade that ended a conflict as often as it was their words. _I carry a weapon_. Obi-Wan had declared. _That doesn’t make me a killer. I don’t learn to fight so that I can hurt people. I learn to fight so that I can protect myself, and protect those who_ can’t _protect themselves_.

“That’s asking a lot of me, Satine.” Obi-Wan says reasonably, feeling put on the spot. “I’m not _that_ good.”

She looks away, with a flash of bitterness in her gaze.

“I’m not saying no.” Obi-Wan tacks on quickly, feeling a sharp flash of hurt to have put that look in her eyes. “I just…I can get you started. But I’m not _that_ good.”

Her pale face lights up, and her smile is shy. “Thank you.” She grabs his hand again, and Obi-Wan blushes, squeezing her fingers briefly before turning and tucking back into his breakfast.

Satine lets out a happy puff of air and tucks into her own, shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Am I the only one who misses spices?” She asks, apropos of nothing, twirling her spoon thoughtfully. “Everything here is very sweet.”

Obi-Wan snickers, and shakes his head.

~*~

“I’m not sure I can recommend such a thing at this stage.” Healer Kala replies earnestly, when Ben asks her if Quinlan might be removed of a few restrictions.

“But surely you can see that his current situation is not helping him.” Ben counters.

“I agree with you, Master Naasade, but the wellbeing of others must also be taken into account.” She replies. “Quinlan presents a risk. Should I have him be walked around by an armed guard?” She says. “That would do him more harm than good.”

“Leaving him to stew by himself will also do more harm than good.” Ben argues. “Believe me, I’ve done that.”

The caamasi healer sighs lightly, nodding. “And we’ll be dealing with that as well, eventually.” She comments, and Ben grimaces. “But for now…I will see what I can arrange to improve his environment, but….”She trails off, snout twitching, and tips her head towards the scrawling imprints Quinlan left in the sand garden, and the damp ground where the frost melted, and the jagged edges in the Force Ben hadn’t quite managed to completely soothe away, the inhibitors adding resistance to his efforts.

Ben nods in understanding, and moves to sit opposite of Quinlan on the bench, where the padawan was sulking, scuffing his feet along the floor. He doesn’t have any pictures today.

“I’d like to talk to the both of you about grounding techniques today.” Healer Kala says, settling herself in her usual place. “To help you center yourselves when you feel…disconnected, from your present reality. Have you kept up on the exercise we practiced last time?”

“Three times a day.” Ben reports mildly, and Quinlan nods, a sharp jerk of his head.

“Well done.” Healer Kala smiles briefly, soft ears perked up. “This will be…similar.”

“We know what grounding techniques are.” Quinlan says acidly, jerking a thumb in Ben’s direction. “They kept him off the battlefield for about six days the first time he was labelled TSR, and that’s about the only thing they managed to cover.”

If she is shocked, they can’t sense it. Part of a Soul Healer’s training included impenetrable shielding.

“Six days.” She repeats mildly, dark eyes on Ben. “And that was the only method of treatment?”

“What were the words?” Quinlan drawled snidely. “’Indispensable to the War Effort’, I think, when they overrode the Chief Healer. You know, most memories stick because they’re powerful, emotionally, or even just a shite ton of Force being thrown around, but that one…it’s so _clear_ , but you were just….numb.”

“My medic was made aware, and my troop commander.” Ben answers her question, ignoring Quinlan’s needling. “I was ordered increased mandatory rest cycles and prohibited from taking stimulants.”

“His medic tried really, really hard to keep to that, you know? Lasted about a month.” Quinlan sneers.

“Quinlan.” Ben sighs, looking askance at the kiffar.

“What? She’s our healer. She has a right to be _fully informed_.”

“Quinlan.” Ben repeats, and earns a dark scowl. Ben looks back to their Healer. “Please continue.” He requests, while Quinlan sulks.

“I’d like you both to try a counting method.” She says, having gotten used to the rhythm the two of them tended to fall into. “Counting down from five. To start with, I’ll have you speak your observations out loud, but on your own you can merely think them to yourselves. I want you to practice this a few times a day, just like your other exercise, until it becomes familiar. Becomes habit.” She pauses, waiting, until they both acknowledge her with a nod, Quinlan more reluctantly, only glancing at her and then glaring at the wall.

“Find five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. And one thing you can taste.” She says.

“Do they have to be real?” Quinlan inquires, brows lifted, lips quirked in a smirk. “What if I’m hallucinating?”

“Are you experiencing hallucinations?” She inquires calmly.

“He’s not.” Ben sighs, giving the padawan a short look. Quinlan’s smirk grows.

“I might be.” Quinlan purrs.

“As someone who has, in fact, hallucinated _vividly_ in the past, I can tell you plainly that you are _not_ , Quinlan Vos.” Ben says shortly.

“I’m experiencing voices.” Quinlan retorts.

“That’s not exactly hallucinating.”

“They aren’t _real_ voices.” Quinlan protests, put out to have had his game challenged. “That counts!”

“They _were_.” Ben counters flatly. “Now they are just echoes of memory, and you know that full well and probably better than I do. Quit attempting to obfuscate our healer because you’re bored.”

“But I _am_ bored.” Quinlan whines.

“Gentlemen.” Healer Kala sighs softly, earning their renewed attention. She glances between them, and decides to focus on Quinlan.

“Practice once, will full dedication, and we’ll call it a session. For the rest of our time today we’ll do nothing but drink tea and….play a game of your choice.” She offers.

“Any game?” Quinlan dares her, yellow eyes alight.

“Let’s say Sabacc or Dejarik.” Healer Kala amends herself.  

“Fine.” Quinlan shrugs, slouching back.

Healer Kala smiles. “Thank you, Quinlan. Proceed, please.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I could be doing this faster by hand.” Her padawan remarks, sounding quietly frustrated.

“Most would say it was droid work.” Shaak replies, her montrals prickling with her own fondness for her padawan. “But then, you have always seen to your responsibilities yourself. We’re going to have to work on your ability to delegate, Shmi.”

“This is the opposite of delegation.” Shmi replies flatly, and Shaak Ti cracks open an eye to peek at her cross-legged apprentice, with sweat on her brow.

“We are not working on it at this particular moment.” Shaak laughs lightly. “We are working on your control of the Force.”

And since her padawan was also attempting to clean out an unused dormitory as a proactive measure regarding her mission on the Reconciliation Council, Shaak had had to adapt, and so they were also multi-tasking.

It is not that Shaak Ti is opposed to Shmi’s place on the Council of Reassignment, but she is rather irritated that Mater Yoda assigned her such an enormous responsibility without a courtesy warning, so that Shaak Ti could devise a new training curriculum around said duties. As it was, now the _both_ of them were mostly testing their abilities to adapt and improvise.

The dormitory wasn’t in terrible condition – nothing in the Temple ever was, even in those parts considered abandoned, but there was dust, the odd cracked panel, a few defective mouse droids, linens left to fade and fray on the beds, and discarded younglings toys or games, many of which had broken down over the years.

Stripping sheets was an activity for muscle memory – or droid programming – and Shaak Ti was beginning to wonder whether she was actually testing Shmi’s patience, or merely her frugality, by having her apprentice do such a thing with only the exercise of her mind, and her will.

Needless to say, it was slow going.

“I thought Jedi abhorred innapropriate use of the Force.” Shmi mutters.

“This isn’t inappropriate.” Shaak rebuts. “This is an excersize in fine control. It may seem silly, but such practice helps attune your senses as well as your feel for physical definition in the Force. You have extremely good awareness for _beings_ , Shmi, a masters awareness, I would say, but this is just as important.”

There wasn’t a being in the Temple that could sneak up on Shmi Skywalker, but she struggled with something as simple as guessing a card she could not see. Her entire life, her abilities had been honed for one specific skill set, and everything else seemed…atrophied, all the natural ability that a young Force Sensitive would have had faded away in its favor.

Though Shaak was beginning to think that it had nothing to do with talent, and everything to do with belief. Shmi could take apart, find what was wrong, fix, and put back together an engine she had never seen before, but to practice the same theory to examine an injured toad and get a feel for what was wrong with it, and Shmi was stumped beyond measure. Furthermore, she looked at Shaak Ti like Shaak Ti had just asked her to perform a circus act.

It made for a uniquely challenging padawan, to say the least.

Both women twitch as a linen tears, and Shmi sighs, aggrieved.

Eyes closed once more, Shaak Ti smiles. “We’ll keep working on it.” She murmurs.

“Yes, _Marrat_.” Shmi says dryly.

~*~

Somehwere between sound and vibration exists the instinctive awareness twi’lek – and most lekku bearing species – have for one another, and so it is that Vokara Che has developed an instinct for when little Aayla Secura storms into the Halls of Healing, leading Master Tholme by the sleeve.

Handing over one last patient datapad to Padawan Leeoli at the service desk, Vokara turns and waits patiently for the pair to approach her for their usual visit.

To the Healer’s genuine pleasure, the youngling has recovered some of her weight, and no longer had the pinched look of the water-deprived, her face and lekku rounding out, the color of her skin more vibrant, the bruises that had been hidden under grime faded almost completely now.

And though she was skittish still, she was no longer shy. In point of fact, Aaylas’ecura was quite the headstrong little girl, from all Vokara had heard, and as was clearly evidenced by the directive way she led Master Tholme around at every turn. Despite barely being able to communicate, the two of them were making quite the pair.

“Healer.” Tholme nods on approach, looking relieved to see her. He had a packet of flimsi sheets under his arms, and a slim case of holopens, and Aayla had a slightly terrifying collection of mismatched plush creations in a stranglehold.

“You two have been missed.” Vokara remarks, lekku twitching a silent greeting as Aayla stares up at her with hazel-green eyes. The little ones lekku twitch back, and she grins, wide and gap-toothed and goofy.

“She was confined to the crèche for bad behavior.” Tholme reports glumly. Vokara looks up, frowning.

“Surely she wasn’t reprimanded too badly? They cannot expect her to have survived her experience without rough edges.” Vokara remarks. “Does her Soul Healer know?”

“He was made aware, and he and the crèchemaster worked it out together.” Tholme says, while Aayla whips her head back and forth between them, catching perhaps one word in four in her slowly-growing understanding of Basic. “They deal with the shouting and the running away and small acts of hoarding well enough, but throwing things at her clan mates is not something to be overlooked due to her circumstances.”

Vokara lifts a brow and looks down at the youngling, smoothing out her frown.

“ _Dan waak ea ho dei kkaa'ninaliiy_?” She asks.

Aayla’s expression turns mulish. “ _Korjin ohk kehrecan_.” She says. “Quinlan _ohk sei muchi._ I say sorry.” She adds sharply, in thickly accented basic.

“Did they?” Vokara inquires.

“Mn-hn.” Aayla says. “ _Kay do ohk tuo vil korjin ohk go_.”

“ _Gu, do tarhan korjin sahak kehrecan ar si'user dan, Aaylas'ecura, kay dan nie kehrecan ar si'user korjin. Cei ohk cea huhsi_?” Vokara asks, explaining.

The little twi’lek heaves a massive, put upon sigh. “Clan Master say same.” She mutters. “I _say_ sorry.”

Vokara shares a look with Tholme, and both of them shrug a little at her obstinance.

“He had a…rough attitude yesterday.” Vokara tells Tholme. “Your visit should improve his countenance immensely.”

“She wants to color with him today.” Tholme says, turning to emphasize the items he was carrying. “And she said she was sad that Quinlan was lonely when she wasn’t there, and so she brought him…those.”

Vokara eyes the little monsters squished in Aayla’ grip again. “Where did she…?”

“She made them.” Tholme mutters. “With the help of her friends.”

“Ah.” Vokara nods. “Well then, we best take you to him. I’ll see to it you can stay as long as you like today.”

Tholme lifts a brow at the concession, given that their visits were typically strictly regulated.

“Your visits do improve his outlook immensely, and….” She glances across the Halls, to where Master Naasade is currently being housed while on his own restrictions. “For a man towing the line, that man can cause worlds of aggravation without ever breaking a rule. If he would focus on his own healing with half as much fervor, Healer Chias would weep in relief.”

“What has he done and why does it involve Quinlan this time?” Tholme asks, as Aayla leads the way to Quinlan’s secured room, dragging him along.

“We all know that isolation isn’t ideal, but we have limited options. Master Naasade has been trying to get us to stretch those options for Quinlan’s sake, and was flatly denied. So he’s been…Honestly, I’m not even sure there’s an accusation that could actually be made, but stand still long enough and he’ll have you cringing guiltily for the sense of disappointment and passive-aggressive dismissal he’s capable of exuding. Well, not _you_ , but he’s been silently terrorizing the staff.” Vokara shakes her head, and stops at the keycode, ensuring she is bodily between it and Master Tholme. Padawan Kenobi may have shown her how to outwit his little hack, but she wasn’t going to be so lax again. The fact that Naasade could probably get around their security measures with ease didn’t sit well with her, but the man was cooperating to the letter with every stricture placed on him, and she wasn’t going to stir trouble up where there – as yet – was none.

“I’m still not convinced as to why they’re in therapy together.” Tholme mutters.

“Well, it was Naasade’s memories that…” Vokara trails off at the pained look in the other master’s eyes. “He cares, Master Tholme, and I believe he feels terribly guilty, for all that no one could have predicted….” She shakes her head.

“He can’t help himself.” Tholme sighs, speaking of Quinlan. “Force knows I’ve tried hammering in some impulse control.”

“Well, now he’s learned the hard lesson for it.” Vokara says. “Maybe it will stick.”

Tholme narrows a doubtful eye at her, and Vokara shrugs softly.

The door snicks open, and Aayla squeaks, darting inside.

Even with the creepy yellow eyes, Vokara thinks, the smile that lights up his face is worth all their efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RYL:
> 
> dan waak ea ho dei kkaa'ninaliiy = you threw things at your playmates?  
> Korjin ohk kehrecan. = They were mean.  
> Quinlan ohk sei muchi. = Quinlan is my friend.  
> Kay do ohk tuo vil korjin ohk go. = But i was punished and they weren't.  
> Gu, do tarhan korjin sahak kehrecan ar si'user dan, Aaylas'ecura, kay dan nie kehrecan ar si'user korjin. Cei ohk cea huhsi?  
> = Well, i think they did not mean to hurt you, Aaylas'ecura, but you did mean to hurt them. So was that fair?


	8. Chapter 8

Healer Ylar Kala pauses outside the familiar patterned door, takes a measured breath, and presses the door key. It slides openly with a whisper of air, and she steps lightly inside. The sand garden has been re-shaped, following the previous incident, new patterns formed and the stones moved around into interesting geometric abstracts of neutral colors.

“I think I actually miss my plants.” Master Naasade says, and her ears twitch, before she locates him on the edge of the sand, delicately tracing the spiky leaves on one of the potted plants that added a taste of green to the room. Usually, he has seated himself already by the time she arrives, but then, today is not as per usual.

“That is not unusual.” Ylar remarks, making her way towards her typical seat. He doesn’t move from where he stands, but he does look up across the room her, tacking her with his gaze. “You have been removed from familiar surroundings. It’s natural to crave them.”

“I think you fail to comprehend my natural aversion to them.” He replies simply.

Ylar flicks her ears, taking in that comment. “If you do not like them, why are there plants in your quarters?”

“Shmi found them beautiful, and Obi-Wan finds them interesting. They _are_ soothing.” He admits. “But my master had a habit of collecting flora that did not agree with my existence.”

“And do the ones in your quarters agree with your existence?” She asks.

“Quite so, I think.” Master Naasade nods, feet still rooted where he stood. “Where is Quinlan? Is he alright?”

There is the question she had been waiting for.

“While I agreed with you that attending therapy together was beneficial, it has become apparent that _your_ healing would be done far more service if the both of us where actually focused on _you_.” Ylar say calmly, watching for his reaction.

He looks steadily back at her, and doesn’t reply.

“That isn’t to say I am cancelling your partnered sessions entirely, but some one-on-one therapy is a necessity if I am actually going to be able to help you.” She adds, when the silence between them stretches, and he still looks back at her, entirely unreadable until she sees the flash in his eyes that marks his conscious decision to _comply_ with that determination.

And that is precisely the crux of the matter with Master Naasade, Ylar thinks. He is not the most powerful Jedi she has ever met, does not display himself as the most intelligent, or educated, or experienced, though no one could claim that his depth in any of those categories is anything but vast, but in terms of sheer force of will, she does not think anyone could claim to be his equal.

And the Temple and the Order may not be able to name that for what it was, but Ylar thought it did frighten them. Because everything he did was a deliberate and calculated choice, every time he disobeyed, every time he obeyed, it was a decision balanced on a scale none of them could see or comprehend.

Or touch.

Humility, the Jedi embraced. But powerlessness…that was an unfamiliar taste, and it unsettled them.

Ylar had to admit that it unsettled her too.

But she also thought that perhaps it must be incredibly lonely, to look at the world through his eyes. And his actions, his protectiveness and outward focus did not speak to her so much of selflessness as it did of absence, of a complete lack of self-consideration that was ultimately self-destructive.

She wanted to help him, and the first great hurdle to helping him would be convincing him that it was acceptable to help himself.

Master Naasade moves to sit down, every motion an economy of quiet dignity and a hint of danger in martial control, so natural to his being that he likely doesn’t even notice it, and Ylar takes a quiet breath, snout twitching.

 _I’ve got him to sit down_. She tells herself. _Now let’s see if I can get him to talk_.

Small steps.

~*~

“You don’t want to bend your wrist, you want to lock it.” Obi-Wan says, correcting the motion again. “Or you’re going to hurt yourself. You want to form a smooth line.”

“I think I’m going to hurt myself anyways.” Satine mutters.

“Well, yes.” Obi-Wan concedes. “But try not to think about how much it’s going to hurt. In most cases, your adrenaline will be running high enough that you won’t feel it in the moment.”

Satine nods sharply, and starts the motion over, stepping forward, shifting her balance, one arm raising to block, the other arm making a forward strike. “Bo-Katan taught me this.” She says. “I should have kept practicing.”

Sadness, guilt and anger ring through the Force, sharply felt and sharply pushed away.

“Though I’m still not pleased with the idea of breaking someone’s nose.” She adds, giving him a look.

Obi-Wan sighs. “You want to stun your opponent. Stun, and then subdue, right?”

“But do I have to break their nose?” She asks, tone rising with the hint of a whine.

“Satine, I don’t mean to…disillusion you, but you are a human. We rarely have the height or weight advantage to best an opponent in a direct contest of strength. You have to outmaneuver them or overwhelm them. So some precisely applied force is going to be necessary if you want to overcome them. You have to be able to level the odds, if you want to be able to subdue them.” Obi-Wan says. “Especially at our age.”

“ _Precisely applied force_ makes it sound so….civilized.” Satine mutters, repeating the motion again, careful to keep her wrist in a straight line. “There isn’t anything civil about violence.”

Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair, and his comm-link beeps. Obi-Wan fishes it out of his pocket as the beeping repeats itself, indicating a call, and he accepts without a thought, one eye on Satine’s balance.

“ _’What do we do, when we fall out of love, with our heroes’_.” Jango Fett snarls over the holo-call, and Obi-Wan flinches. “ _Why the fuck are you sending me sad lines of poetry_?”

Obi-Wan cringes to the bottom of his soul, a flush immediately rising to his face. Satine stumbles, eyes wide on the other side of the hologram, and underneath the angry countenance, Obi-Wan thinks that maybe Fett is a little pissed because he’s also a little concerned.

“I – I did not mean to send that to you.” Obi-Wan stutters, swearing on his life that he was going to double-check his comm-threads the next time he sent a message. That did explain why Padme had been taking so long to come up with a counter-line to continue the game.

Fett glowers back at him in hologram, utterly unimpressed. “ _Pehea cuyir gar baji'buir_?” He asks gruffly.

“ _Jahaala at cuyir_.” Obi-Wan replies, relieved to be able to say so. Fett grunts a response, expression pinching around the eyes, and Obi-Wan can sense the abrupt upcoming ending of the call and blurts out; “What’s a beginner’s way to stun someone without breaking their nose?” He asks, and Fett pauses, eyeing him critically.

“You _need to know this_?” The Manda’lor inquires, suspicious for all that Obi-Wan manages to keep himself from shifting nervously. “ _Jetiise tend to be competent in that regard.”_

“I’m trying to teach someone self-defense who is….reluctant to actually cause someone else any harm.” Obi-Wan says, briefly glancing to meet Satine’s gaze. “Who isn’t a Jedi.”

Fett breathes out through his nose, crossing his arms as he considers.

“ _Training with a stun baton would be the simplest form of self-protection_.” Fett remarks. “ _Though you would still cause some damage – your hibir should realize that a little force is necessary.”_ Fett remarks, and then looks down, brow furrowing in thought. “ _How determined are they_?”

Obi-Wan glances at Satine again, and can tell that Fett caught the gesture this time and recognized that someone was with Obi-Wan whom he could not see. He scowls.

“They want to learn the proper mandalorian way.” Obi-Wan confesses.

“ _The proper mandalorian way_.” Fett repeats flatly. “ _Without hurting anyone_.”

“Yes.”

“ _Jed’ika_ ….” Fett growls, impatient.

“They’d have to be better than the best.” Obi-Wan says. “They’d have to be superb. They know that.”

“ _You don’t have the kar’tayl to train anyone to that caliber, Jed’ika._ ” Fett says sharply.

“I know, _Mand’alor_.” Obi-Wan snaps, impatient himself. “I’m just trying to get them started.”

“ _Then how about you have them come around where I can see them instead of kaab’chak on us like a –_ “ His mouth clicks shut abruptly when Satine darts into view at the invitation, a flush on her pale cheeks, her chin lifted defiantly.

“ _Mand’alor_.” She greets coolly, one fist crossing her chest.

Fett is still, very still, for a long minute, unreadable save for the pinched look around his eyes and the angry clench of his jaw. “ _Adiik be Kryze_.” He nods, voice low and smooth as glass. “ _Ad be Jorad’alor_.”

They glare at each other, while Obi-Wan sighs, slightly exasperated.

Fett breaks the deadlock first, glancing aside and gritting his jaw. “ _It is the place of your buir to train you_.” He says sharply.

“My father is trying to keep our system from tearing itself apart.” Satine declares coldly, her words packed with accusation against the Mand’alor. “He doesn’t have the leisure of taking the time to train me.”

Fett looks back at her, eyeing her from head to toe. “ _You’re a pacifist_.” He remarks scathingly. “ _Practically New Mandalorian already, from everything I’ve heard_.”

“Yes, well, my sister is Death Watch.” Satine snaps, fists clenching. “We had to balance each other out.”

An irrepressible jerk shakes Fett at that, and even in hologram he loses color. Satine looks away, biting her lip, eyes watery with emotion, and Obi-Wan wonders how, exactly, they just crashed so quickly.

Satine catches Obi-Wan’s gaze, looking terribly ashamed of herself. “She isn’t – it’s not-“ She glances at Fett, who won’t meet her gaze after that particular dig. The Death Watch stole more from him personally than all of Mandalore would ever be able to make up for. “The True Mandalorians were gone.” Satine says quietly, voice full of the hush of bitter confession. “The Mand’alor was gone. _You_ were-“ She bites her lip again, trembling from head to toe with the kind of fine rage and grief that started and stopped wars. “The Old Clans can’t keep holding us together.” She says, looking Fett in the eye and forcing him to meet her gaze, for all the passion of her youth, and the determination of her legacy. “Mandalore _will_ break. I didn’t want to believe it, but Bo-Katan…”

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do, but he feels remarkably useless, standing there. Satine takes a steadying breath, lifting her chin once ore in the cool, severe poise with which he had first met her. “She’s not like me. She has the training, and the strength, and she…There were two of us. If she chose the Death Watch and I chose the New Mandalorians…we couldn’t stop the war from starting, but we could end it.”

“ _With one daughter of Kryze as the Death Watch Mand’alor, and one as the Duchess of the People_.” Fett says, and the respect on his face is real, just as real as the bitterness. “ _You’re_ fourteen.” He says.

“That’s old enough.” Satine declares. “ _Cun oyay_.” She recites firmly. “Our lives for Mandalor.”

Fett stares back at her, and then his lips slowly twist in a snarl, and he cuts the call as he starts swearing, already moving with purpose.

The two teenlings blink in the sudden absence of the blue light, and Satine makes a soft, desperate sort of sound, a quiet rage against failure. She whirls on him.

“What’s next?” She demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> jed'ika = little jedi  
> Pehea cuyir gar baji'buir = how is your master?  
> jahaala at cuyir = lit: healthy to be ie: on the mend.  
> jetiise = jedi, plural  
> hibir - student  
> kar'tayl - knowledge with experience  
> Kaab'cha (kaab chakaar) = lit: sound thief - spying  
> ad be Jorad'alor = daughter of the Duke  
> adiik be kryze = child of clan Kryze  
> buir = father/parent  
> cuun oyay = our lives - from cuun oyay par Mandalor = our lives for Mandalore


	9. Chapter 9

“We weren’t fighting the Sith” Ben interrupts a question that had been carefully neutralized on her part, and he recognizes that she has noticed the fact that he is avoiding anything that might be used by an outside party to attempt to interpret the future in order to make decisive changes regarding it. The fact that she has decided to assist him in working around those structural details is actually quite the relief, and it makes it easier to decide to answer her questions.

Healer Kala doesn’t quite have brows to lift, but her ears fold a little in much the same way.

“When I speak of the war it was not….There were Sith, and there were Jedi, but the war was not ours, not in name, at least. The wars were between the Galactic Republic, whom the Jedi were….enlisted in fighting for, and the Separatists, whom we believed were backed by the Sith. I won’t go into the details of the politics.” Ben remarks, running his fingers through his beard. “They don’t matter anyways. None of it mattered.”

“I don’t think that’s quite true.” Healer Kala says carefully. “Regardless of the outcome, you did what you believed was-“

“Please don’t.” Ben says, chilled to his bones. “We didn’t. None of it was right. The entire war was staged. It was horrific and _pointless_ , a grand bloody play for which both sides were merely puppets.” He shakes his head. “We didn’t raise an army, we were _given_ one and thrust into a situation where we had no choice but to accept it, and had no time to truly question it. I led men into battle, _good_ men, who had even less choice to be there than we did, and I did nothing about it. I assisted in the orchestrated death of billions designed entirely to wipe out the Jedi and put one being into an ultimate position of power. So Republic, Separatist, _it did not matter_. Neither of us were ever meant to win. There was no good cause to fight for, no justice to be found once it was all over. Just…death. And do you know the absolute irony?” He asks, without really asking.

“I was warned, from the very beginning, and because the man who warned me was Fallen, I dismissed that warning as lies. He _warned_ me, and I failed anyways.”

“You take a lot of responsibility.” She says.

“I was given a lot of responsibility.” Ben remarks tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “High Jedi General of the Grand Army of the Republic. Councilor, Negotiator, Master. I was – “He bites his tongue before he sneers out a name that is no longer his to claim. “ – I was….I was the one always trusted to do what I was ordered to do, no matter how difficult or dangerous the mission, given all the most important assignments and trusted not to fail.”

“You were very young, for all of that.” She says, like an absolution.

Ben laughs, cracking around the edges. “You think _I_ was young? They knighted my padawan before he was ready, before I was ready, and they made him a general and gave him a _battalion_. My grandpadawan was fourteen when she was made a Commander. Barely fifteen by the time she was leading independent squadrons. Leading men into battle. Into death. Do you know how many times I stood by _helpless_ when I was certain we had sent her into a situation and now she would be _fifteen_ forever-” Ben chokes, and curls in on himself.

Healer Kala swallows, though nothing slips past her shields. Nothing has to. He was there when it happened. He knows what the Jedi felt. “You did not know then what you know now.” She tells him. “Do you agree with that?”

“But I should have-“

“You did not know then what you know now.” She repeats firmly. “Do you agree with that?”

Ben nods reluctantly, forcing himself to unbend.

“Then what else could you have done?” She asks. “You followed your instincts and made your choices to the best of your abilities at the time-“

“I didn’t.” Ben snaps, shaking his head, hands hovering as if to dig into his hair, before he forces them to drop. “I didn’t follow my instincts. I followed _orders_.”

~*~

Healer Kala regards her patient, who had spilled forth a deluge of guilt-ridden anger and buried it again just as quickly.

This was becoming a problem. He needed to talk, she is certain he even _wants_ to, desperately, and is just as desperately afraid to do so. She watches as he practices a breathing technique she didn’t have to teach him.

“Count down from five for me, please.” She suggests, watching him layer himself back under impenetrable layer after impenetrable layer, a flash of self-recrimination in his eyes for having said as much as he did.

He takes a short breath, and ticks off the count on his fingers. “Bronzed door. Blue robes. White sand. Green tree. Chipped teapot.” He lists off five things he can see, and takes another short breath. “Hair. Skin. Ceramic. Wood.” He runs his fingers over each with a featherlight touch. “Heartbeat. Ventilation.” He tilts his head, eyes falling closed, listening. “Cloth on cloth.” He says, as she shifts position. It is not the best room for naming sounds – proofed as it was for her patients privacy. “Potting soil. Buttermint tea.” He inhales lightly, taking in the scents as best a human being can. He lifts his teacup and takes a sip. “Cream.” He names the taste, finishing the grounding exercise. “Artificial.” He adds, a bit put out. “I’m not allowed real cream yet.”

Healer Kala smiles politely at his attempt at levity, and gives him the break he quietly asks for. “How are you handling the diet? Nothing too awful?”

“I am on broth, bread, yogurt, bland noodles, rice, plain eggs and these chalky smoothies Healer Chias won’t actually list the ingredients of.” Master Naasade remarks dryly. “Do you know anything about Mandalorian cuisine?”

Ylar blinks at the odd segue. “I can’t say that I do.” She says.

“If it doesn’t burn to the back of your sinuses, it doesn’t have enough flavor.” He comments flatly, and she does try to stop the twitch of amusement, but can’t entirely help herself. Naasade can be charming when he wants to be, and has a flair for spoken delivery that never disappoints.

“It’s only temporary.” Ylar reminds him lightly.

“He’s being far too cautious.” Ben replies, almost a complaint.

“He replaced half your digestive system.” Ylar lifts her ears. “I’d say he has the right to be cautious.”

He grumpily narrows his eyes at her, mouth twisting in a grimace. “I do believe you are supposed to side with me, Healer Kala.”

“I do believe I am supposed to do what is in your best interest.” She replies easily. “I don’t think encouraging you to push the boundaries of your new stomach and thus make yourself sick is in your best interest.”

He hums noncommittally, and it is her turn to narrow her eyes. He flashes a grin at her for calling his ploy, and it is a remarkable change, the handsome charmer from the man who had just minutes ago been tearing himself to bits, face aged and stricken.

Sadly, she cannot let him merely play the mask. “Master Naasade, what do you think my purpose is?” She asks.

He blinks, and she watches him decide who he’ll present himself as to answer her question. His fingers linger on his teacup, and the grin fades some, into a somber, thoughtful expression. He’s very reactive, Master Naasade.

“Let me rephrase myself.” Ylar decides, watching him shift mercurially and knowing without a doubt that he could run polite circles around her if he so chose. “Why do you think I am _here_?”

“Because the Council selected you?” He lifts a brow, looking teasingly puzzled.

“No.” She replies calmly, and takes a sip of her tea, never breaking his gaze. “Do you think we all merely do what we do because that is what the Council selects us to do?” She inquires, and internally winces for how much more pointed that question was than she intended it to be. “I don’t get up in the morning because the Council has something for me to do, Master Naasade.” She adds, softening what had very nearly been an accusation. “I _chose_ to be a Healer. That is the path for which I feel the most purpose. I chose to be _your_ Healer. I am here to help you, and for no other reason.” She says. “Why are _you_ here? Not in this time, not what is your purpose. Why are you _here_ , in this room, right now?”

He stares back at her, for a moment looking caught, and then he lowers his gaze and takes a sip of tea, buying himself time. She waits. He looks back up at her. “Why do you think?” He asks quietly, hands cupping his teacup.

Ylar pauses, considering, and decides that Naasade may have his breaking points, but this does not appear to be one of them.

“I think you are here because you have decided that playing along is the best course of action to get you what you want. You are here because the council has demanded it. You are wearing that inhibitor as if it does any good because it is what the council expects you to do. You do exactly as you are told because it gives them the illusion of a control that they do not have and you are convinced that the illusion is necessary to further whatever ends you have come here to accomplish. Am I far off the mark?” Ylar questions.

He lifts his brows appraisingly, and a corner of his mouth quirks before he hangs his head. “No, I’ll admit that you are not.” He confesses.

“Well then, as we are on the same score, perhaps I can make myself very plain, Master Naasade. I _do not care_ about this whole matter between you and the council and….and while I cannot say I am not deeply concerned about the future, else I would be lying to the both of us, my concern – my primary concern – is that I am your healer and I am failing you.”

Ah, she’d startled him. Good. That actually seemed like a genuine response.

“I am not another game piece between you and the obstacles you find yourself facing, Master Naasade. I am not one of those obstacles. I am not something for you to work around to get what you want. So you and I, we are at an impasse.” She says.

His expression has smoothed over, unreadable, and he looks down as he carefully replaces his teacup on the table. “And what would you suggest, Healer Kala?” He asks softly.

“I suggest that you let me treat your for TSR. We’ll continue as we have been, practicing exercises, but all of that underlying…” There wasn’t a word, for all that underlied his condition. “You have to let it out. And it has become apparent that you cannot discuss this with me, that you refuse to do so.” She says. “And I understand your reasons why. So I am going to petition the archivists to allow you to construct a holocron. And after our sessions, I may suggest some topic for you to address, and you need to walk yourself through those memories so that they can be dealt with, so that you can heal. Burying all of this inside you is not healthy, Master Naasade, and it is a wound that will fester, and we will have more incidents like the one that has brought you to me.”

“Isn’t talking to myself considered going in the wrong direction?” He quips, and it is so mild and reflexive that she think it must be habit, and that someone in his life must have once borne the brunt of a very dry sense of humor. She hopes it wasn’t a padawan, for the padawan's sake.

“If it helps, it helps, Master Naasade.” Ylar replies.

“I suppose that’s reasonable.” He replies quietly.

“Excellent, then I want you to do one last thing for me, and we’ll call it a day.” She tells him, and he looks up, his eyes a stormy blue-grey that hopefully suggests he is actually giving the prospect of participating in his own healing real consideration.

“This is something I want you to practice in front of a mirror, and for right now, I want you to look me in the eyes and say ‘I am allowed to need help’.”

His eyes shift, a whirl of confusion, before a polite mask slips over his face.

"I - "


	10. Chapter 10

Negotiations resumed at last, once the report of Moia's medical technology and practices was publicized and the young delegates given the opportunity to review it, and their adventures on Moia were curtailed by routine.

Their mornings were spent each on their own affairs, their afternoon after shadow-pass spent in diplomacy, and their evenings after supper spent playing games and watching the Nubian Junior Legislators form miniature debates and get into lively arguments. They attracted a following of Moia legislative apprentices and formed teams and somehow the padawans were then forming judges panels and a competition had sprouted up.

Senator Vallorum, much to the consternation of his colleague, gleefully accepted the role of host and referee.

Master Vumoyo, who had gratefully bowed out of being responsible for even more adolescents, instead offered topics up for debate and otherwise kept the company of the Moia chaperones as they all watched fondly and with good humor.

“It’s good to have a peaceful mission for once.” Luminara confessed, leaning across the table the ‘judges’ had claimed. “We haven’t had the best luck of late.”

“So you decided to test it by saying that?” Sian asks incredulously.

“I’m not a superstitious sort.” Luminara replies amusedly. “Are you?”

“Well, no but – but-“ Sian sputters.

“Luck is real, and it likes to laugh.” Obi-Wan adds to the conversation.

“Where’d you hear that?” Luminara inquires, lifting a brow. “It’s rather clever.”

“It’s a mandalorian proverb.” Obi-Wan remarks. “There are three things that decide victory; Skill, determination, and sheer dumb luck.”

“And Obi-Wan is very interested in mandalorian – “ Sian’s iridescent blue gaze shifts to Satine’s pale profile, “ – things.”

“Sian.” Obi-Wan mutters, elbowing her. She elbows him back.

“Like you haven’t skipped sparring every morning to go find Miss Kryze.” Sian accuses. "Tsui reported that you trounced senior padawans left and right and yet you haven't even drawn your lightsaber since you got back. I am missing out, Obi-Wan. I need proof of this, you understand? And you are _denying_ me."

“I’m helping Satine with something.” Obi-Wan protests. “It’s not like that.”

“I don’t know, Obi-Wan,” Luminara teases. “Does your species typically turn that shade of red? Sian, does his species typically turn that shade of red when they’re totally innocent-“

“I’m _innocent_!” Obi-Wan yelps, as Sian cackles, shaking her head.

“Innocent of what?” Padawan Tanwaze pipes up, leaning around Luminara to peer at them, his black lekku swaying behind him.

“Judges?” A debater calls, pausing, and from the platform, Padme lifts a very pointed brow at them. Clearly, they are interrupting a master at work, and she is not pleased.

Luminara makes their apologies, and Obi-Wan grumpily ducks his head, hiding his face in his hands.

~*~

“Master Yaddle.”

Ben and Quinlan share a look, and then both glance between the small green Master and the Healer stepping in beside her.

It’s one of Quinlan’s better days, and he has a small plush monster clutched in his hands. The increased visits with Aayla and Master Tholme have helped immensely in Quinlan’s ability to ground himself, to _want_ to control the dark energy that lashed around him, and resist more violent impulses.

Yaddle looks back at them and blinks slowly, before ambling her way into the room. Quinlan jaunts his way towards the benches and hops over it to sit down, showing more of his usual vigor than he has in weeks. Ben sits more simply, and the padawan pulls up his feet to sit cross-legged, hands and plush in his lap, while Yaddle accepts Healer Kala’s assistance to get up on the other bench, settling herself cross-legged as well, clawed toes flexing.

“Suggest, you did, a direct intervention in young Vos’s situation.” Yaddle says. “Enter his mind, you wish to, and partition the memories.” She looks steadily at Quinlan, and then at Ben.

“I did.” Ben murmurs. “I had thought the council dismissed the idea.” Given the amount of time it had taken them, and the utter lack of return information. Ben had done his studying regardless.

“Dismiss it, we did not.” Yaddle replies. “Arguing, we were. Useful, some believe those memories could be.”

Quinlan snorts, and none of them pretend they don’t understand what she means by that. Quinlan is by far a less impenetrable vault than Ben was, after all.

“Ethical, some of those arguments were not.” Yaddle admits freely, to the surprise of her audience. “Tested, we are.” She murmurs, ears drooping. “Rise well to the challenge, some of us have not. In review, my council is. Searching themselves, they are. Resign, some of them must, for change, they are not ready to. And change, you bring with you.” She nods to Ben.

“I would apologize, but…” Ben trails off at the unimpressed look wrinkling Yaddle’s face.

“Your coyness, I do not need.” She remarks flatly, and Quinlan snickers.

Yaddle turns her attention to the kiffar boy. “Padawan Vos, agree, I have, that acceptable, this suggestion is. But your choice, it remains. Your mind, it is, and your spirit, it shall effect.”

“Hell yes.” Quinlan says without hesitation, yellow eyes shining brightly. “I’d rather like my head to go back to belonging to _me_.”

“Then proceed, we may.” Yaddle nods gravely. “Assist you, Healer Kala and I shall, if ready, you are.” She looks between them, Quinlan already nodding impatiently, and Ben lifts his arm, letting his sleeve fall to display the inhibitor.

“I would be rather more successful without this.” He says.

Yaddle looks back, eyes half lidded, unimpressed. “Remove it, you may.” She prompts him. Ben lifts an innocent brow, for a moment, and her steadiness does not waver, her lips only thinning out, before he sighs, and tugs on it with his fingers futily.

“I _can_ remove it, Master Yaddle, but perhaps the healers might like their property back intact.” Ben says considerately.

“Perhaps.” Yaddle nods, and hops off her bench to amble over to him. She presses one stubby digit against the small plate on the cuff, and types in a short code. It whirrs, the lock cycling, and unhinges. Ben flings it off his wrist dispassionately, watching it clatter to the floor before lifting it back to his hand with the Force, and setting it on the table with a small click.

Healer Kala rises from her seat, and Ben shifts on the bench, crossing a leg over so he can straddle the bench and face the padawan, who has shifted himself towards Ben. Ben reaches out with both hands and Quinlan slaps their palms together, his fingers digging into the older mans wrists before Ben tugs him in closer.

“This seems familiar.” The padawan purrs, leaning into Ben’s personal space. Ben quirks a brow, shakes one hand free of Quinlan’s unkind grip and pats the smirking kiffar on the cheek.

“In another life, Quinlan Vos.” He remarks wistfully, and Quinlan scoffs in affront, pouting.

“You know, you always did have this ridiculous habit of flirting with people who meant you harm.” Quinlan says snidely, reclaiming Ben’s hand and settling himself into a more comfortable meditative position.

“And you flirted with everything that moved.” Ben retorts, settling himself, pressing his feet into the floor and rooting himself into the Temple.

“I…was a _delight_.” Quinlan insists. “You on the other hand, were a disaster.”

“A _disaster_?” Ben draws back. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not.” Quinlan remarks, tapping his temple pointedly. “It is _all_ in here.”

“Gentlemen.” Healer Kala interrupts. “If we could perhaps settle ourselves and focus on the extremely delicate procedure you are about to embark upon.”

“Oh, are _you_ nervous?” Quinlan sneers irritably at her, yellow gaze glittering, and Ben clicks his tongue.

“Eyes on me, please.” Ben says, reclaiming Quinlan’s attention, feeling the boys pulse hammer against the fingertips Ben has settled on the fine skin of his wrist.

“Jealous?” Quinlan smiles, wide and proud of himself, dreadlocks brushing along his cheekbones.

“Are you implying I should be?” Ben muses, closing his eyes to focus.

Quinlan rolls his eyes before closing them in turn, and Yaddle shakes her head as she shuffles over and climbs up onto the bench behind Quinlan, resting a wizened hand on his shoulder. He twitches uncomfortably, and his hands part briefly from Ben’s before being recaptured. He settles. “Sadly, general, you are _not_ my one and only.”

“I knew you had a one.” Ben remarks softly. “I didn’t know she was an _only_.”

“Neither did I.” Quinlan’s voice drops into something wiser and sadder. “ _Wait_.” Quinlan opens his eyes, and Ben meets his gaze, and the pleading that is in them.

“Can you-“ Quinlan starts, and stops, his emotions rising, flickering, flaring like a fire in the Force. His hands grow cold. “I – there are people you’re going to take away from me. C-can you take her too? It’s too much. It’s too much and….and I loved her, but I’m not who he was and she isn’t and….”

“You want to live _your_ life and figure out who _you_ are, and who _you_ can fall in love with.” Ben says softly, all the things Quinlan can’t explain.

“Maybe we’re meant for each other and maybe we aren’t, but…” Quinlan shakes his head. “I don’t want to meet her one day, to look at her face, and remember all the things she hasn’t done and all the promises we never…we never made. Sith hells, _I hate your life_.” Quinlan swears, fingernails biting into Ben’s palms, and Ben smiles sadly.

“Take a number, Vos.” He remarks.

Quinlan huffs, and settles back down. His presence in the Force is a storm that won’t settle, but he pulls it in on himself as best he can. There is a brief battle of wills, Yaddle quietly reminding them that if either of them resists, if either of them fights, they’ll do irreparable harm.

Ben holds back, dancing around the skittering edges of that storm, until something quietly reaches out, and invites him in.

~*~

“Senator, Mandalore will not take any oversight position regarding the Moia System. We are here sponsor their petition and _nothing_ more.” Satine insists, during one break from negotiations, as they all retreat to a courtyard balcony more to enjoy the sunshine than because the negotiations were tedious. Moia culture did not place a great emphasis on work before luxury.

“But our concern is who has authority over the hyperlane at-“

“Mandalore has the authority for the Mandalor Hyperlane. This hyperlane may be a spur of ours, but its provenance is within the proposed boundaries to be regarded as the System of Moia, and will remain with the system of Moia.”

“But in the interest of trade-“

“The Trade Federation can negotiate with Moia, and if it chooses to do so, it will leave Mandalore out of it.” Satine shuts down Senator Macell coldly, and the Rodian scowls, flushing a darker green. “We are not superseding their governance for the sake of Cato Nemoidia’s profit margins. As it is I find the Trade Federations arrangement with _my_ system to be unacceptably disproportionate in regards to who receives the most benefit.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t quite understand the arrangement – you are-“

“The daughter of Duke Adonai Kryze.” Satine declares. “And I understand perfectly well when I am being taken advantage of.” Her silver-blue eyes narrow, and the Senator blanches to have been so directly called out.

“Is there a problem here, Miss Kryze? Senator Macell?” Obi-Wan inquires, having more or less discreetly made his way across to them as the flush of anger rose on Satine’s face. Senator Vallorum was in deep discussion with the Ia’Tasi administrator, though his gaze had drifted over in concern, frowning slightly at his colleague.

Obi-Wan doesn’t think the Senator is dangerous, unseemly political allies aside, but something is striking him as wrong about the shape of the world at the moment, and he’s wary enough to want to pull Satine away.

“No, of course not.” Senator Macell smiles puckeringly, starry eyes narrowed. “We are merely-“

Obi-Wan jerks up a hand and shoves with the Force, and the rodian falls back with a screech, as a bright bolt flashes where her head had just been. Satine freezes, eyes wide, and Obi-Wan’s cyan blade ignites with a shrill vibrato hum, the blade pulsing as he lunges sharply, bringing it up to deflect the sniper-fire.

The bolt connects with the blade, surging the power, and Obi-Wan has only an instant to recognize the shriek just at the edge of his ability to hear before-


	11. Chapter 11

A tingle starts at the top of his scalp and spreads ticklishly down to the end of every extremety, a sparking awareness of coming back to his physical self.

The first thing he notices is the quiet. The utter lack of clamor, of the crushing, jostling presence of other thoughts drowning out his own, scratching at the confines of his skull.

Quinlan gasps in air, once, twice, and tears run down his cheeks in sheer overwhelming relief.

“It worked.” He gasps out, clinging to the hands laid open under his own. “It worked!” He repeats, blinking open his eyes. His vision swims, dizzy, and he looks into stormy blue-grey eyes that don’t automatically accompany a sense of jarring displacement, and Quinlan smiles, chest still heaving.

“You sound very surprised for someone who claimed to have trusted me.” General – _no_ – Master Naasade says fondly, gently pulling out of Quinlan’s grip and shifting back so that he can stand. He too wobbles a bit, senses realigning into physical limitations. That was always the warning of going too deep into the Force – you might not come back.

“I’m happy.” Quinlan retorts, and then he feels it, dancing through his bones, and it’s true. “I’m _happy_.” He repeats, marveling at the warmth in his skin. The Dark Side was still there, like deep water, and there was no place in the miasma of its grasp for happiness, for joy and delight, but for a moment Quinlan felt less like he was treading in the rapids and more like he was standing on a shore. The water called to him, but it wasn’t consuming him.

Master Naasade smiles at him, relief bright in his eyes, and Quinlan takes a moment to stare at the man who once more feels like the master of a friend and not like a lifelong, intimate comrade. Quinlan still knows too much about him, all of the memories and experience still lurking in places he can go, if he wants to, but now they feel more like a story he’s been told, rather than something he’s lived through. Less personal, less inherent to who Quinlan is.

“Share your joy, we do.” Yaddle croaks, and Quinlan twists, to see her offering up his plush monster in her small green hands, a gentle smile on her face that he recognizes from the crèche. “Fond of you, we are, and burdened, you were. Sad, it made us.”

“Fond of me?” Quinlan repeats mischievously, feeling like his chest would burst for the brimming energy contained within, buoyant and loud. “Are you sure? I’ll remember that next time I’m up for reprimand.”

“So certain, you are, that a next time, there will be.” She shakes her head, passing the plush into his hands. “Your master, I do not envy.”

Quinlan laughs, and it’s easy.

~*~

The Master of Initiates was a burly trandoshan female with yellow and blue scales, and intense orange eyes. Her robes matched her natural coloring, and Shmi had yet to determine if her severe countenance was a matter of species or a matter of personality. What she had determined, however, was that she made Master Zaska uncomfortable.

Master B’una, the Master of the Crèche, on the other hand, had a rather different opinion of her. To her intense surprise, he seemed to find Shmi…too energetic, or perhaps too bold. The elderly green Duros was an intrinsically kind individual, but dealing with someone between the ages of Initiate and Master seemed to perplex him, and he caught himself several times accidentally treating her as much younger than she was. Shmi found it oddly endearing, which she believed relieved him, and gave her insight into how most grown knights must find such attitudes so very much _not_ endearing.

Reassignment Archivist Masters Aratrid, a white-haired, soft green colored S’kytri woman and Lmosel, a bald, fluffy-browed evocii man, however, both seemed warily respectful of her, after their inclusion on the briefing regarding the report of the decline of the Jedi, a catastrophe made in part – in _large_ part – by the decision of the council in which they served.

None of the four seemed particularly settled with the fact that their fifth member was a Padawan, and an unusual padawan at that, but…needs must, and Shmi was, out of everyone, an ideal candidtate to represent change in the Jedi Order.

“It is only that…you move rather quickly, Lady – ah – Padawan Skywalker.” Master Lmosel remarks, white, flaring brows drawn together into a single, troubled line.

“My proposal was accepted by this council, was it not?” Shmi replies calmly.

“It was.” Master Aratrid acknowledges, soft green wings rustling behind her shoulders as the older woman regarded Shmi, sitting across from her. “Four days ago.” She adds pointedly.

“Then I do not see where I have erred.” Shmi replies.

“Are we truly…prepared for this? So soon?” Master Lmosel asks, looking to Masters B’una and Zaska for their input on this matter.

“I have personally seen to the preparation of dormitories and to the availability of instruction within the Temple.” Shmi replies. “As well as informed the quartermaster, the kitchens, and the service droids of their impending arrival.”

“But twenty-eight….does that not seem like too many for a first attempt?” The evocii man asks. “As it is the prospects for padawans are competitive.”

“Which we have discussed previously.” Shmi replies simply, thinking that perhaps Master Lmosel was too nervous of change. “And our decision was to allow any Master who has already raised a padawan to knighthood the option of taking on more than one student at a time. Furthermore, while older Learners require the same amount of dedication, there is much we have already learned that a youngling does not have the benefit of. My training and the training of many experienced Initiates will not take so many years. Masters, I selected each of those twenty-eight prospective padawans with deliberate care for their circumstances and interest. You fail to realize, perhaps, that there are _hundreds_ who could easily wish to be recalled to the Temple to pursue the path of a Jedi Knight. Twenty-eight _is_ the conservative number for a trial run.”

“What were your criteria?” Master Zaska finally speaks up, her voice a thin rumble for her age. “Why these twenty-eight?”

“To the first, I looked for those who had it noted in their transfer to the corps that their first preference had been to remain in the Temple to pursue Knighthood. I understand this inclusion exists because some knights are on mission when an initiate they may have had interest in ages out.” Shmi says, earning an acknowledging nod from Master Aratrid. “To the second, I looked not for those whose transfers were recent, but for those who were aging out of the corps or had already aged out and chose to remain in their field with the Jedi Service.”

“Why not the youngest? Surely it was be simpler?” Mater Aratrid inquires.

“It would seem more traditional, perhaps, but the youngest have more time to alter the course of their lives than the older candidates do. Their service training will benefit them either way.” Shmi explains, practical to her bones. Personally, she thinks that some time away from the Temple will do the youngest more benefit than harm, though the abrupt and complete upheaval of their lives was perhaps not kind, in the manner that the Temple performed it. The Jedi were, at times, uncomfortably insular and bafflingly dismissive of sentient nature, code or no code. “Whereas those who are nearer adulthood or are adults already do not. They have their survival to think about, their wages, their homes, the possibility of families. I started with dozens of candidates of age, and winnowed out those who had left the service corps, and those who had started families. Furthermore, there were those whom I contacted regarding the opportunity who declined, who had found themselves on a different path that suited them perfectly well.”

“Upon completion of the probationary period, however, will the offer be open to the younger candidates as well, or are you going to maintain the preference of those of age?” Master B’una inquires, his milky red eyes focusing on her.

“You’re that certain this will succeed, Master B’una?” Master Zaska asks, surprised at her fellow councilor.

The aged duros turned to his companion, surprised it turn. “It has to, Master Zaska. The future of our order is at stake.” He turns back to Shmi, still waiting for his answer.

“I limited myself for the sake of this Council’s approval, Master B’una.” Shmi answers him, reminding herself she does not need to be made small, and quiet, reminding herself that she is young, and she is different, but she is no less than their equal in this room. “A Jedi true to the calling, I believe, would deny no one, but for the will of the Force.”

He smiles at her, and Shmi thinks that on another world, in a different life, she might have called him grandfather. He had earned that respect, though he might shy from such regard. The Jedi were silly that way. “Then we shall start with twenty-eight.” He says, nodding at her.

Shmi nods in turn, and pulls a pair of datapads from the pocket of her tunics, and sets them on the arm of her chair. Master Lmosel eyes them with pinched eyes, and Master Aratrid just closes her softly in resignation.

“It appears you are not done with us, Padawan Skywalker.” Master Zaska sighs. “What is it?”

“The other half of the problem.” Shmi replies, wondering, truly, where those who took on the roles of grandparents somehow made it to their stage in life with the belief that the young were not due to bring them trials and troubles to solve.

“Which is?”

“The Knights and Masters of this Order who neglect their duties to train the next generation.”

~*~

White, intense heat.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, a shrill ring and his pounding pulse the only thing he can hear. His face stings hotly, and his side, and he blinks a few times, the back of his eyelids flashing red, aching against the brightness of a pale green sky.

Something moves under him and his lungs stick before he manages to suck in air. Painfully. A hand grabs his arm, shifts up to his shoulder, as Obi-Wan struggles upright, everything bright edged and blurry but-

Danger. The Force is screaming at him, and a looming shadow resolves itself into Master Vumoyo’s dark robes, holding a guard position, his saber a sharp line of blue, waiting for another bolt to fire. If the sniper is intelligent, they know they won’t get another shot.

If they’re very intelligent, they’ll be making their way offworld as quickly as possible.

Obi-Wan blinks, trying to look around. His thought fizz off into nothing, and he feels out of control of his balance, but he can see his friends. Sian’s pink blade guarding the Nubian Junior legislators and the Moia children representing the system, all of them hunched under a table. Jepas is standing to her side and slightly behind her, but the little twi’lek looks terrified, his saber shaking in his grip. Luminara is covering the Senators, but she’s shifting her balance, cutting a look to her master as they wait.

Their mouths are moving, but Obi-Wan can’t hear what they’re saying.

The hand on his shoulder moves to his neck as he starts to slump. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard to stay sitting up, but whoever is behind him – Satine, he thinks, it has to be Satine – has to support his weight as his body fails to cooperate.

He looks down, and he thinks he understands why.

His robes are smoking, and covered in blood. It has to be his. He can’t feel his right hand, his saber hand, and he’s really glad he can’t. He can see the bones, and the ravaged muscle, and they’re not where they’re supposed to be.

Sharp pain lances up his side, and Obi-Wan gasps raggedly, and nearly vomits when he moves the ruined hand on instinct before having the sense to use the other one. What he finds is part of his lightsaber casing, a good few inches buried in his side, between his ribs. He presses shaking fingers around the shrapnel piece, finding smaller ones along the way, and the pain starts to radiate, spreading like fire across his side, and once it starts it doesn’t stop.

It was his lightsaber. Obi-Wan stares stupidly down for a few loud, ringing heartbeats, watching his blood seep and spread. It was his _lightsaber_.

Obi-Wan flinches when Master Vumoyo seems to suddenly descend on him, and cries out at how much flinching hurts, while his mind runs around and around in circles.

His lightsaber. His _lightsaber_. Why would his lightsaber just explode? How could he not notice? It was his _lightsaber_.

Master Vumoyo carefully takes hold of his chin, lifting it so Obi-Wan will look at him, and Obi-Wan doesn’t register how delicately the mirial master is avoiding the one side.

“Th-the sniper.” Obi-Wan says, trying to point with the hand that works. “The-“

He can’t quite hear his own voice, and Master Vumoyo is talking to him, and he can’t really hear that either, past the ringing in his ears.

Obi-Wan can see Moia security forces past the master’s shoulder, see plasma-shields being erected, and all the diplomats being ushered inside. Not Luminara, though. Luminara takes a long, critical look at the angles around the courtyard, shares a glance with her master, and takes off.

 _Good_ , Obi-Wan thinks. _Luminara will find them_.

He focuses on Master Vumoyo.

Well, he tries to.

The jedi master and Satine carefully try and get him back on the ground, lying down, and Obi-Wan resists, because he doesn’t want to lie down, he wants to get _up_ -

But then Satine’s face is hovering over his, her silver-blonde hair falling around it, and she looks very angry at him for trying to get up, so he stops.

There’s a smear of blood on her cheek, which is pale, very pale.

“Are you hurt?” Obi-Wan asks. Hopes he asks. His chest feels very heavy. And it hurts.

Everything that he can feel, _hurts_.

Though he is starting to worry about the things he _can’t_ feel.


	12. Chapter 12

“No.”

“If I could only-“

“No.”

“But you see-“

“No.”

“Please?”

Padawan Unna Leeoli was a golden-eyed, bronze skinned mon calamari, a Healer Archivist in training, and the absolute beating pulse of the Halls of Healing alongside her master.

She was also rather displeased with Essja Chias.

“Your paperwork is impeccable, Healer Chias.” She says levelling, her voice brassy and deep. “I would be far more impressed with it, however, if it were also submitted in a timely and orderly manner. I am _still_ missing your requisition orders, and until they appear on this desk, you are not getting anything else from me. I am accountable for the inventory and supply of this entire Hall, and it is difficult to keep accurate records when our Healers just start walking off with things they haven’t been approved for.”

“But it takes four days.” Essja sighs out, slumping.

“Are you experiencing an emergency?” She inquires flatly.

“No.”

“Then it will take four days.” She replies. “And your pout is nowhere near adorable enough to change that.”

“Unna!” Essja squawks, and she smirks at him as he blushes violet.

“You’re a fully recognized Healer now, Essja.” She says. “No more free passes. They’ll accuse me of favoritism. Or _you_ of misuse of authority.”

Essja grumbles a complaint, and his former crèchemate laughs. “You know, you used to be a very patient person, Essja. Your master sure did you no favors there!”

“She equates patience with idleness, and idleness doesn’t suit her.” Essja says. “She was a good master.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t doubt that. She’s one of the best.” Unna says. “There’s rumor that Chief Healer Quoorup is going to retire soon, and she’s on the short list, her and Master Che.”

“That’s been a rumor for years.” Essja says doubtfully.

“I know.” The mon calamari rolls her large eyes. “But I think it won’t be long now. Master Quoorup is having more difficulties of late. He tires more and more easily, and his hands aren’t as steady. He’s stubborn, but he’s not so stubborn he’ll put the Halls and his patients at risk.”

“We shouldn’t whisper about it.” Essja says uncomfortably. He liked Healer Quoorup. All the padawans did. He was _nice_ to the padawans. Rather less nice to the Healers, but then the Healers were tougher and less anxious.

“I’m not whispering about it, I’m telling _you_ , because Master Hiella was _your_ master.” Padawan Leeoli says, her eyes straying to the streaming holodisplays on the admin hub as something flashes. “Is your patient alright?” She asks, glancing up at him, her eyes seeming to swirl in color for the sudden motion, as mon calamari eyes tended to. “The medical droid assigned to him just ran a third diagnostic scan in the last twenty minutes. There’s nothing coming up!” She says hurriedly, when he jerks and looks prepared to bolt that way. “But it keeps running them.”

“I’ll go find out.” Essja says quickly. “Thank you.” He adds, before stepping away.

“Let me know if it’s malfunctioning! I’ll have it sent to maintanence!” She calls, her voice carrying with clarity, which was part of the reason the mon calamari was so well suited to her particular role within the Halls.

Essja has to move past the patient rooms and down the rows to the recovery wing, where Mater Naasade was moved following his operation, given his rather longer-term stay, but he manages not to work himself up and arrives at a steady stride, taking a breath as the door cycles. He doesn’t sense anything wrong through the door, no radiating pain in the Force, but when he walks through it, he’s concerned nonetheless.

Master Naasade is leaning against the bottom end of his biobed, one hand pressed absently to his side, the other gripping the lower rail. His face is turned away, eyes closed in a frown.

“Master Naasade, is something wrong?” Essja inquires, stepping towards him.

“According to the scanner, no.” The man replies.

“Well perhaps I should take a look?” Essja remarks. “Maybe I’ll find something the scanner can’t. Why don’t you tell me what _you_ feel?” He asks, reaching out to gently guide the man around the corner of his bed to sit down.

Master Naasade looks at him, stormy blue-grey eyes, just barely flecked with muted green, and nods. “It’s almost….like a phantom pain, I suppose.”

“Where?” Essja inquires, hands hovering just over the other man’s skin, still feeling nothing from the Force but his patient’s worry and discomfort. “Your side?” He guesses, where Naasade has one hand pressed to his ribs.

“Yes. And my hand. It comes and goes.” Naasade tells him.

“Do you think it might be the synthetic nerves misfiring?” Essja asks. “We could replace them, though I don’t have access to anything of the same caliber of technology.” It’s why he had attempted to rewire them instead of replacing them during the surgery, believing that repairing what he had was still the better option. “It would explain the pain in your side, and it may be sending false signals through the nerve cluster here, which is why you might feel it in your fingers.” Essja gestures. “Is it a shooting pain?”

“No.” Naasade shakes his head, cinnamon hair brushing over his shoulders. “It’s….a cold sort of ache. I think…” He holds out his hand in front of him, fingers spread, and turns his palm over, carefully flexing and curling the fingers into a fist. “Can I ask you to call my padawan?” He asks quietly. “My comms are monitored and I’m not allowed to contact him at all until my Soul Healer is satisfied with my…until I have addressed certain emotional concerns.”

“Your padawan?” Essja blinks.

“I don’t think I’m the one in pain.” Naasade looks at him pleadingly, and Essja feels his stomach clench tightly, because Master Naasade doesn’t ever look quite like that – like he’s scared.

“He’s halfway across the galaxy.” Essja breathes out. “Even if – are you sure?”

It wasn’t _impossible_ , but to feel someone from that far away…From what Obi-Wan had said, Essja wouldn’t have thought their bond was anywhere near that strong.

“Please.” Naasade nods, and Essja nods back.

“Of course.” He promises, and hopes they're both wrong, and that Obi-Wan is _fine_.

~*~

“Master Jedi, we are doing everything that we can, but we are simply not sufficiently equipped to deal with human beings.” The Mo’Tasi surgeon says. “Our doctors do not have the cross-species expertise.”

Master Jamal Vumoyo closes his eyes briefly at that, gathering up the strength of his soul, and nods calmly. “I understand, of course.” He murmurs. “But his life is not in danger?”

“Not that we believe.” The surgeon replies. “We’ve stopped the bleeding, and we believe we can stabilize the injuries without any adverse reactions, but he needs surgery. He’s only very lightly sedated – his biology and ours are not very compatible, and we are being very cautious regarding the medications.”

“And the pain?” Jamal asks, still stricken by his first look of Padawan Kenobi’s injuries, by the stark contrast of red blood on black and white robes, and the damage-

He stops thinking about it, one hand absently come up to run a finger along the rough scars on his own face. It’s not something he thinks anyone should suffer, let alone a youngling.

The surgeon pulls something out of his pocket, a small compact disk with a ridged dial on its face, and a small ring of light. “Luckily we do not utilize chemical pain relief. It’s a sonic inhibitor. Placed along key points in the nervous system, they deaden the sensation.”

The mirial nods, having seen similar such devices, though they weren’t widely used. Those of lesser quality had a reputation for malfunctioning and causing permanent nerve damage, even paralysis.

“Will he be stable enough to travel?” Jamal inquires, worried about the slightly less than smooth transport in and out of the systems complicated gravitation flux.

“If we are exceedingly careful of the shrapnel in his side.” The surgeon admits. Master Vumoyo nods.

“Thank you.” He says. “Excuse me, I’ll have to arrange travel and find a suitable medical facility.”

“Yes, of course.” The Mo’Tasi nods, fur ruffling slightly.

Jamal takes his leave and walks out of the secured area, back to where his other charges were waiting to find that they had doubled in the last quarter of an hour.

“Is he alright?” The smallest Nubian cadet demands politely, shouldering past her taller companion.

“Master Vumoyo?” Padawan Jeisel prompts, when Jamal finds himself staring back at the girls big brown eyes, and the fear inside them.

“We need to transfer him to a medical station better equipped for dealing with human-standard biology.” He tells them.

“There’s a station on the Mandalorian Hyperlane.” Miss Kryze says, sitting in one of the low chairs, her sprained wrist in a lightweight cast, her face having been cleaned up, though there is still some spotted smears of blood in her pale hair. She and Senator Macell had both required medical attention, though everyone else appeared to have endured unscathed.

“This was an attempt on your life, Miss Kryze.” Master Vumoyo says, trying to be kind, but also reasonable. “I do not believe taking you closer to Mandalor is in the best interest of your safety.”

Her face shadows with hurt, but her jaw is lifted stubbornly. “Be that as it may, Master Vumoyo, he needs medical attention and that will be the closest. We’re on the far edges of the rim in wild space. We don’t have very many options.” She says, and he knows she is not wrong. “Please.” She adds. “He saved my life.”

And they were close, Jamal knew. He’d been keeping an eye on them, but hadn’t discouraged the friendship. Had it been infatuation, he might have, wary as ever of teenling hormones, and thank the Force Luminara had never been prone to charged emotional behavior. Rather, they seemed to bond over a cultural connection, and a matching set of tempers, and as nothing inappropriate had seemed imminent, Jamal let them be.

Well, he’d had Luminara check up on them a few times, but his padawan had been discreet, and reported nothing that he believed warranted intervention.

“We’ll need the navigational charts.” Vumoyo nods. “The Moia have offered to lend a medical transport, and their ships will be far more suited to the gravitational fluctuations than ours.”

She nods, and her expression blanks out as she sits there, with nothing left to argue and little left to do. “I’ll send a request to my pilot.” She says, voice low.

“What can _we_ do?” Padawan Jeisel asks, with the jittery sort of tension of someone who needs to do something.

“Um….” He thinks about it, his mind on his padawan, hoping that she is safe and that she is successful in her task. Jedi do not pursue revenge, but he is allowed a want for justice without censure. “If you feel up for the task, I rather think we should…” He hesitates, and it still bothers him, what happened, the _why_ of it, and he is rather certain there is probably still blood in the courtyard. He looks down at them, and they are all…. _young_.

“Master Vumoyo.” The devaronian padawan insists, iridescent blue eyes full of gravity.

“We’ll need to collect the pieces of Padawan Kenobi’s lightsaber.” He says, blinking down at her, running his eyes over all of them – the nubian cadets, the padawans, even Innan and Satta, quietly hovering just behind them, looking shocked to the core at the incident of violence, and that ached, because this _was_ such a peaceful world.

“Master Vumoyo, why did it blow up like that?” Padawan Tanwaze asks, fingers curled around his lekku in a gesture of self-comfort. “I didn’t think a lightsaber could…” He trails off, voice getting smaller and smaller, and looks down at his own with trepidation.

“That’s because lightsabers _don’t_ just blow up.” Luminara says, walking into the waiting area from across the way. Jamal meets gazes with his Padawan, and feels a clench in his chest at the way her gaze shadows, and the minute shake of her head. She didn’t catch their assassin.

“But…” The little twi’lek protests, and Luminara lifts a patient hand.

“I mean to say it’s not spontaneous, Jepas.” She says, managing a smile for the younger padawans. “Most likely, the power cell overloaded, which can be caused by a flaw in the circuitry, or a damaged crystal, or from the weapon being improperly aligned.”

“But it was his lightsaber.” Jepas says worriedly. “Wouldn’t he have felt a warning?”

Luminara shares a flicker-quick glance with her master, and they both know that the answer is yes, Padawan Kenobi should have sensed the flaw in his weapon.

But even for a Jedi, such things were not guaranteed.

“If the power regulator failed, he may not have had the chance to.” Luminara says, evading a direct response. “The energy bolt from the sniper may have caused a very unlucky power surge. We’ll be able to tell more if we gather together what’s left of it.”

“Okay.” The Twi’lek boy says uncertainly.

Looking at his very disheartened group, Master Vumoyo sighs quietly to himself.

His comm-link beeps.

He presses the key, and to his consternation, a pantoran Healer he takes a moment to place as Healer Ni Hiella's former padawan appears on the holo-call. By reputation, then, that must be Padawan Kenobi's master's healer, and Jamal can feel his heart sink at that realization.

“Master Vumoyo, I apologize if I’ve interrupted anything, but I was hoping you might connect me with Padawan Kenobi? His comm-link doesn’t appear to be receiving signal.”

Luminara offers him a very sorry look from the other side of the hologram, and quietly starts ushering their charges away.


	13. Chapter 13

“You know I think normally I’m doing that.” Quinlan remarks, lounged across the bench like a lanky lizard, watching Ben pace with a narrow ring of yellow around his pupils, bleeding into the brown of his irises. “He’ll be fine.” He adds, with the underlying tone of someone trying to convince themselves as well.

“He will be.” Ben remarks flatly, with the precise and clipped determination of a battle commander who will allow for nothing else.

“Then maybe you could calm down?”

“A rich assessment from _you_ , Padawan Vos.” Ben retorts, running a hand over his hair, turning on heel, and returning along his circuit of tense energy.

Quinlan makes a disgruntled sound low in his throat, and tosses the Jedi Master a glare.

“Sorry.” Ben mutters, looking reproachful of his own behavior. “It’s just…why am I _never_ where I need to be when it comes to my padawan?”

“I think you’re referring to the _other_ padawan.” Quinlan remarks, flopping over and propping himself up on his elbows.

“I’m referring to both of them.” Ben remarks bitterly, and the door slides open, admitting Healer Kala, who always gives them a chance to speak freely before she joins them.

Her ears perk up, inquisitive, and she pauses just inside the door, looking between them.

“He’s having an emotional crisis.” Quinlan claims flippantly, and Ben offers the boy a quelling look of displeasure.

“I had heard that your padawan was injured on his mission.” Healer Kala nods.

“He’s mad he isn’t there.” Quinlan says. “Let’s just say there might be a pattern to that.” He drawls, as Master Naasade abruptly shifts direction and storms over to the bench, sitting down with unnecessary fuss.

“That is rather enough from you, Quinlan Vos.” He mutters. Quinlan shrugs, flopping upright.

“I’m only being _helpful_.” He needles, earning a sharp look that belongs more to the General than the Jedi Master. Energy sizzles under the padawans skin, cold and dark, and Quinlan leans into it a little, _daring_ the other man.

Ben turns away in quiet dismissal, and Quinlan blinks, and takes a breath, reminding himself that he needs to fight this, not give into it. He has to control it, not let it control him. He knows the consequences, and the man beside him is living proof. The Dark Side promises so much, but it is _never_ without a cost.

He thinks of Aayla, a scrawny weed of a youngling with a smile too big for herself, and the itching under his skin recedes. Or matters less, at least.

Healer Kala studies them both thoughtfully. “Are you angry?” She asks Master Naasade.

“Yes.” He replies honestly, as if they both couldn’t feel it in the Force.

She tips her head. “And what do you want to do with that anger?” She inquires.

Master Naasade stares back at her, and Quinlan can see the moment that something cracks along the edges of his brittle, brutal self-control. She doesn’t know that she has asked him word for word exactly what he would have asked his padawan, in a parallel situation.

He laughs, though a hand immediately comes up to cover his face. It’s not a _good_ laugh.

“I have no fucking idea.” He bites out, and Quinlan winces, because he may be staying as far away from those memories as he can at the moment, but he recognizes instinctively that Ben Naasade does not readily nor easily abandon polite courtesy, and if he’s swearing…

 _He’s not so powerful_ , something deep inside whispers, coos, viciously pleased. _Not so unbreakable_.

 _That isn’t_ , Quinlan tells himself, looking away from his companions, trying to burn the other voice out of his thoughts, _something to take advantage of_.

 _Isn’t it_? The other whispers.

If Quinlan could find that voice in his head and give it a look that perfectly described how utterly stupid it was, he would.

Quinlan Fell because there was a moment, one terrible, decisive moment pressed into his skull in shattering fragment where Ben had made a choice, where Ben had stepped onto the crumbling edge of the void, on the snapping brink of insanity, and then, somehow, stepped back.

And Quinlan, in the blurred space between memory and existence, had not.

Ben had turned and walked away from the most horrifying decision of his life, and he’d never forgiven himself for it.

But Quinlan knows the Sith, the Darksiders, locked away in his head. Ventress. Maul. Dooku. Savage. Sideous. _Vader_.

And none of them terrify him so much as the fact that Naasade almost, _almost_ chose differently.

 _I don’t know how smart you are, whatever you are, but you have to know that he would destroy you_. Quinlan thinks, searching out that voice, for as surely as it felt pride it had to feel fear. For all the power that it hoards, at its base it was still something that would cringe and beg just for mere survival. _He would destroy everything_.

 _We would be one_. It replies, tugging at him in a way he can feel, in his body, in the promise of greater and greater power. _We cannot be destroyed. He would love us, and all like us._ It croons, an oily caress against the longing Quinlan felt to be connected.

That, Quinlan knows, is a lie. What the Dark promises isn’t love.

 _He would destroy you_. Quinlan insists, sneaking a glance at the Master. _You, us, and then himself_.

It doesn’t reply, but deep in the dark spaces inside him, Quinlan feels it shiver, and that feels like a win.

~*~

Obi-Wan wakes up.

There is no gradual rise, no faltering series of attempts. One moment he is asleep, and the next he is perfectly awake, looking up at a geometric ceiling of triangles that alternates lights with windows looking out into a speckled void.

“Why am I on a space station?” He questions in confusion, and attempts to sit up.

“ _No_!” Someone snaps sharply, and Obi-Wan flinches, arms awkwardly placed, and flops back down. He turns his head to see a medical officer in a white uniform pointing warningly at him. He blinks innocently, and she jerks her hand, pointing warningly again. “No.” She repeats firmly, green eyes matching green hair pulled under a white cloth-cap, her skin a patchwork of freckles.

“Is it bad?” Obi-Wan asks, feeling very calm.

“Is it bad?” She repeats nasally, and stomps over to his bio-bed. “You blew yourself up, you crazy kid!”

“I didn’t!” Obi-Wan protests.

“You did!” She accuses, pointing a finger again. “Here I was, minding my own business, treating welder sears and sprained backs and this crazy wizard kid comes in with thirty-four percent burn coverage, eleven compound fractures, shrapnel, and, oh, yes, a punctured lung! You’re lucky we saved your bloody hand! I don’t get paid enough to deal with crazy wizard kids!”

“I’m not a wizard! I’m a jedi!” Obi-Wan corrects her, flustered.

“Same difference!” She snaps, crossing her arms and looming over him. “Now keep lying down so you don’t pop that lung.”

Obi-Wan frowns at her, itching to sit up just to prove that he could, but he’s noticed how heavy he feels now, and there is something…pressing down on him? Obi-Wan stares at the angry medical officer for a moment more, and then looks down at the hand she said he was lucky to still have.

There’s a framework around his arm from elbow to fingertip, filled with some kind of green gel. It hums, and he thinks there’s some sort of electric current being buzzed through it, but he can’t actually feel the arm. Furthermore, and to his embarrassment, he’s been stripped to the waist – and then some, on the right side - and there is a green gelatinous plaster smoothed over his skin, occasionally dotted with electrodes. He reaches up with his left hand and can feel the strange material also covering that side of his face. The medical officer softens a bit, pity in her eyes.

“What is this?” Obi-Wan asks, swallowing down a roil of panic.

“I haven’t actually decided on what to patent it as.” She remarks.

“What?”

She smirks, and leans against the bio-bed. “Well, this is a medical research station, and that is my own invention. I had to improvise as we’re generally more… academic, than functional. We patch up the spacers as part of our funding agreement, but we’re not really set up to operate as a real trauma center, so… _you’re welcome_ , and also, can I use your name in a case study?”

“I’m underage. I don’t think that’s actually legal.” Obi-Wan points out.

“What if I got the other Jedi’s permission? He’s an adult.”

“Master Vumoyo is here?” Obi-Wan asks, forgetting that he’s not supposed to sit up when her hand darts out and pushes him back down by the left shoulder.

“I told you not to do that!” She scolds. “And yeah, he’s around. I think he’s with Doctor Urris. They both have the face-diamond thingies.”

“They’re both mirialan.”

“Eh, yeah. That.” She shrugs. “So how about it? It would really advance my patent proposal if I included a successful live trial.”

Obi-Wan stares at her, and at no point does the woman seem inclined to feel ashamed, so he sighs and lets it go, trying to look around. He can feel the population of living things surrounding them, and get a sense of the size of the station, and he does, to his intense relief, manage to sense Master Vumoyo’s particular Force presence, though he can’t feel any other Jedi.

They must still be on Moia.

“Kid?”

“My name is Obi-Wan.” He corrects.

“Medical Research Officer Greene.” She smirks, patting him on the shoulder.

“Green?” Obi-Wan lifts a brow, staring back into her emerald eyes. She chuckles.

“Oh, kiddo, these aren’t _natural_.” She laughs, pointing to her irises, and flicking a lock of green hair. “Just had to go with the theme I was given. This way, everybody knows who I am on sight.”

“That’s…nice?” Obi-Wan tries, scratching an itch under the edge of the green gel-plast. It buzzes against the fingers he has sensation in. “Um…my burns….are they….bad?” He asks hesitantly.

Her cheer dulls a little bit, though she manages to keep the smirk on her face. “Nothing a few skin grafts won’t cure.” She moves a hand, pointing to the front right side of his abdomen. “Here was the worst of it, aside from the hand. By up here, it was less direct.” She points to his shoulder, and upper arm. “And therefore less intense. You’ll have some scarring here, but nothing that won’t eventually fade. I do specialize in burns, after all, and this lovely green product here will work its magic.”

“And my face?” Obi-Wan asks quietly, reminding himself that Jedi aren’t vain.

“I had buzz half your head, kiddo. Sorry about that, but your hair melted. You managed to turn your face away, so other than your hair, those burns weren’t so bad, but you caught something really sharp up through your cheek.” She informs him. “Those marks I’m not so sure of.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan says softly. “Thank you.”

Officer Greene winces. “Yeah. Of course, kiddo.”

~*~

By the time he is left alone with his holocron, Ben is already exhausted. Pacing had done him no favors, and now he felt slightly ill with the effort. Weakness was just another reminder that he couldn’t race across the galaxy to find his padawan.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Healer Chias had reported that Obi-Wan had been injured, but also that Master Vumoyo had assured that his life was _not_ in danger. On the severity of the injuries, however, Ben was unenlightened.

He also had yet to be told exactly what happened, but Shaak Ti had appeared before he could kick up too much of a fuss, and the reminder of his censure by the Reconciliation Council had cooled his temper.

As had the care she had taken to sit him down and clasp his hand, lifting a fine brow and giving him a look that told him exactly how foolish he would be to do anything…drastic.

So he had attended his physical therapy, and then his Soul Healer’s session, and now he was staring at a crystalline polyhedron no bigger than his palm while his body quietly reprimanded him as a fool.

At face value, a holocron was a data storage device, but in all actuality they were much more complex than that. In Jedi holocrons, they possessed an adaptive learning interface that imprinted on the creator of the device, taking on their image, their mannerisms, and any information the creator imparted into the device, in essence recreating them as closely as possible to preserve their knowledge and teachings for future generations.

A sith holocron, in some cases, did more than that. Sith holocrons contained sith magicks, as well as…a living echo, of their creator. A part of the Sith’s connection to the Force was transferred to the device, creating, in essence, a shade. Yet another manner of cheating death, which the Sith so feared.

Legend had it that in ancient times, holocrons were made at the end of a Jedi’s life, where they would pour themselves into their lightsaber crystals, leaving a permanent impression of themselves, and then join the Force completely, their bodies simply vanishing. Instead of a device, the holocron was in fact an actual tether to the Jedi’s ghost, which could then be called upon.

Having learned a brutal lesson with Quinlan Vos, Ben was keeping his saber crystals well away from this. The artificial memory would do.

Sighing, he reaches out with the Force, delicately decoding the matrix he had created and activating the holocron. A projection of himself appeared, and Ben hopes, at some point, that it will look less faint and tired, but the projection only had so much to work with for now.

“ _Hello there_.” It greets him, with a sardonic smile.

“Hello there.” Ben returns glumly, and the projection lifts a brow.

They stare at each other, while Ben gathers his thoughts and the holocron analyzes him through its sensors.

“My padawan is injured.” Ben finally sighs.

“ _Padawan_?” It inquires.

“My student.” Ben informs it. “He’s injured, and I am not there to help him. It’s not the first time, but it – it’s not the same padawan.”

The holocron absorbs the new data, stroking its beard. “ _What happened – to the other padawan_?”

Ben looks away from the image, struggling with that question that sounds so simple and has no simple answer, not really. He’s been asking himself _what happened?_ for years.

And the answer is always lost in yawning silence.

Ben struggles for his voice, knowing he has to at least…try. “I raised him. I loved him. I failed him. And he Fell.”

The projection tilts its head, knuckle still pressed to its chin thoughtfully, elbow cradled in the palm of its other hand.

“ _Did he get back up_?” It asks.


	14. Chapter 14

“But what is it, exactly?” A familiar voice asks, low and cool. And confusing, because Obi-Wan hadn’t thought she was here.

“Hopefully,” Officer Greene sighs. “An affordable replacement for Bacta.”

“What’s Bacta?” Satine inquires, something strangely muffled about her voice. Obi-Wan decides to go ahead and wake up, though it feels more sluggish to do so this time around, and actually waking up means acknowledging the fact that his skin itches incredibly under the gel.

He looks over and is treated with the delightful sight of Satine Kryze disguised as a Jedi Padawan. She has used a silver pin to clasp the robe at her shoulder, completely concealing her fine clothes, and a white scarf is pulled up over her nose, concealing the lower half of her face, while the hood is pulled low, so only her silver-blue eyes gleam under pale brows.

Obi-Wan tips his head back and snickers, and then stops immediately, because that hurts indescribably.

“Obi-Wan?” Satine say, stepping over to the bio-bed immediately, before Greene pushes her aside and leans over him in concern.

“Where?” Officer Greene demands.

“S-side. Lung.” Obi-Wan whimpers.

She rifles through a drawer near his head and comes up with a handheld scanner that she passes over his chest slowly.

“Alright.” She huffs. “Alright, nothing’s torn. I’m afraid some cramping is going to be perfectly normal while you heal up. Just breathe slowly, steady, in and out. You Jedi are good at that, right? Sitting around and just breathing? Do that. Not too deep, not yet. But steady. In, and out.” She coaches, and Obi-Wan nods tightly, eyes trained on the geometric ceiling.

Eventually, something relaxes, loosening up, and the pain fades. Obi-Wan groans, and Officer Green pats his good cheek.

“You’re doing just fine, kiddo.” She says. Obi-Wan glowers at her, and she smirks. He looks to Satine for help, and Satine is just staring at him, wide-eyed.

“So what is Bacta?” Obi-Wan rasps, hoping for a distraction. For the both of them. Satine blinks, shaking herself out of her headspace, and looks to Officer Greene.

“Bacta is a goddess-given miracle is what it is.” Offer Greene sighs. “You can treat almost anything with Bacta. Quickly and…okay, so your hand?” She points out. “Once the bones were put back together and a weave laid on the muscles to keep them where they should be? Dip that in a Bacta tub for…oh, say a day or two and you’d never know it looked like ill-manufactured sausage when you came in. Wouldn’t even scar.”

Obi-Wan grimaces at her descriptive image, but Satine looks thoughtful. “But what _is_ it?” The heir of Clan Kryze inquires.

“It’s a naturally occurring viscous bio-mass that promotes organic regeneration.” Officer Greene quirks her lips. “Sorry, I’m used to answering questions from spacers.”

“Is it rare?” Satine inquires.

“Oh, there’s about three known systems where Bacta propagates. There certainly isn’t enough to supply the entire Republic, but rarity isn’t the issue. The issue is the corporations who own the distribution rights. My planet used to have Bacta in every major hospital, but the prices keep skyrocketing and now it’s only a luxury for the rich. Half of whom only use it as a _beauty treatment_.” She spits. “It’s a lifesaving tool, but for most, you’d spend the rest of that life just trying to pay for it.”

Satine looks down. “That’s wretched.” She says.

“Isn’t it just?” Greene mutters. “So, we do what we can.” She lays on another grin. “I’m not going to recreate bacta – I don’t think it _can_ be synthesized, unfortunately, but I can get close.” She prods at the gel-plast on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“You’re doing a good job.” Obi-Wan says kindly, grateful that she was willing to use her prototype to help _him_.

She smiles down at him. “Thank you, kiddo!”

“It’s _Obi-Wan_.” He insists, exasperated.

~*~

“ _Ben_!”

He’d almost been asleep, drifting in a pleasantly light doze, when that shrill shriek caught his ear. He startles, his heart stopping every time, fingers digging into the grass, at the thunder of little legs.

“Ani, _chess ko_!” Shmi calls quickly, slipping into huttese as she tries to stop her son from actually launching himself onto Ben, for which the Jedi Maser is grateful.

Anakin has a grin wide enough to split his face, and doesn’t slow down. Rather, he leaps, jumping over the prone Master, and tumbles into the grass on his other side with a riotous giggle.

“Thank you for not landing on me, little one.” Ben says, brows lifted, and Anakin rolls in the grass until he’s snuggled up against Ben’s side. The gardens whisper around them, but are mostly quiet for now, as the younglings haven’t yet been released from breakfast.

Ben had asked for permission to leave the Halls about three hours before the morning bell, giving up on the pretense of sleep and knowing full well he'll probably be hearing about it from Essja later.

Sitting in the cool gardens had proved far more settling than staring at the neutral walls of his recovery room.

It had not been a good night.

“You were hurt, so I have to be careful.” He chirps. “I know that!”

His mother walks up to them, standing over them and looking down with a pointed look in her sharp brown gaze. Anakin looks back up innocently, and Shmi sighs, softening, and lowers herself to sit cross-legged beside Ben, who sits up out of courtesy with only a twinge from his abdomen.

“Good morning.” Ben greets, and Shmi offers him a quiet smile, nodding a return greeting, while Anakin takes Ben’s upright position as permission to climb into his lap.

“Careful, Ani.” Shmi repeats.

“I am, Amu!” Anakin insists, and Ben holds down a wince when a bony knee meets his thigh, though the boy is being careful not to fall against his stomach.

“What are you two up to?” Ben inquires.

“We’re waiting for my friends!” Anakin informs him brightly, his hair curling wildly around his face for the humidity of the gardens.

“Their clans have a free morning.” Shmi tells him. “And I have time until I’m due at the shuttle bays.”

“Working with the mechanics again?” Ben inquires.

“I wish so.” Shmi replies. “But no. The returning Initiates will be arriving today.”

“Ah. Your business with the Council of Reassignment.” Ben nods, having heard rumors. “You know, you should talk to the Healers. They seem interested in the idea of bringing back trained medical professionals to learn advanced Force Healing. That could even be done in small classes, if the medical knowledge is already possessed by the student, and all they need is the proper guidance and instruction in the Force techniques.”

“Why isn’t it done already?” Shmi inquires.

“Tradition.” Ben shrugs. “And Healer’s especially have been…reprimanded, in the past, for taking students out of the medical corps. And training an adult? They’ve done it on the sly, especially when you get farther from the core and the Temples, in some of the stations of the Outer Rim, but it still earns them the disapproval of the Order. They consider it encouragement of Rogue Force users, as they work for the Jedi Order, but they aren’t necessarily beholden to the Jedi faith.”

“If they are born to use the Force, is it not their right to learn?” Shmi asks. “Why must it be Jedi, or nothing at all?”

“We _aren’t_ the only Order, and there are entire species who use the Force naturally, but…” Ben shakes his head. “The last war between Force users almost destroyed the galaxy, Shmi. The next one-“ Ben stops himself, biting down, and shakes his head again.

“I see.” She says quietly, wisdom in her eyes.

“Are you _done_ now?” Anakin asks plaintively, craning his head up to look at Ben. “You and Amu are so _ser-i-ous_. Master Yoda says we shouldn’t be so _ser-i-ous_ all the time.”

“Ah, does he now?” Ben lifts a brow, and Shmi lifts her gaze to the sky in fond irritation at the old master’s ways.

“Yes!” Anakin insists. “So you should _stop_.” He exaggerates. “And play with my friends with me.”

“Well, I’m afraid I may not be quite up to that level of activity, Anakin.” Ben says sorrily, running his hand over the boys wild hair.

“Can you play push-pull?” Anakin asks. “Then you don’t have to move. Just use the Force.”

Ben smiles, looking down at earnest, wide blue eyes. “That I can do.” He agrees.

Anakin grins, and it’s a grin that Ben has known for years. A little wild, a little reckless, but so full of pure joy that Ben is helpless but to smile back at him, no matter how maddening Anakin might have just been.

Under Ben’s hand, he’s warm, and happy, and blazing in the Force like a small sun, barely contained in the fragile skin of a little boy, and it makes Ben…sad.

Because this bright, happy child is Anakin Skywalker, but he’ll never be _Ben’s_ Anakin Skywalker. That was point.

But it didn’t stop it from hurting.

It didn’t stop Ben from missing him.

“Ben?” Shmi looks at him with concern, and lifts a hand to cup his cheek, carefully brushing water from his lashes. He blinks and sucks in a breath, unable to meet her brown gaze.

“Sorry, so sorry.” He mumbles, leaning away from her touch and brushing his own hand across his face, wiping away any trace of further tears. “I just upset myself.”

“Well don’t _do_ that!” Anakin exclaims.

“Ani.” Shmi sighs softly, and Ben startles when she touches him, but she is careful, and he doesn’t have the will to resist when she pulls him down until his face is pressed against her shoulder, and Anakin is hugging his side.

She doesn’t say anything, one hand resting on his hair, holding him there, and he shudders once as his body relaxes into the embrace, breathing in the scent of her – a mix of metal and tea spices and nutty soap. Anakin shuffles against his side, and Shmi’s hand trails away from Ben’s hair to find his own.

She grips his palm, squeezing hard, and Ben turns his hand to clasp hers back. That was always Shmi Skywalker – gentle and strong, a soft touch and a hard reminder.

In another time, he’d claimed her son and left her on a desolate world as a slave. He doesn’t deserve her kindness, and he hates himself that he accepts it anyways. He’d failed her twice. Once in condemning her to that life, and again in failing her son. He’d begged her grave for forgiveness and received no answer.

And he’s too afraid to beg for it now.

“Amu! Amu!” Anakin squirms, all youthful energy and clumsy attempts to soothe him through the Force. “You should tell him a story! You always know the right story to make someone better.”

Shmi hums, low in her throat, and Ben can feel it through his cheekbone.

“I will tell you a story.” She decides, and gently pushes him back up, though his skin aches for craving the contact. He runs a hand over his hair, smoothing the locks back into order, and she looks into his eyes like she can see into his soul.

And judges him for nothing.

Shmi looks away, dropping her gaze to her son, opens her arms to him, and Anakin crawls from Ben’s lap into hers. She cradles him like a gift. She smiles, a soft, secret Skywalker smile. And then she looks back up at Ben, and that smile is for him too.

Shmi starts softly, her words just for the three of them. “It is said that when Tena first went into the desert, she was taken there to die….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Tena’s Story’ – From ‘The Slave Who Makes Free’ by Fiallerial, part of the ‘Double Agent Vader’ series.


	15. Chapter 15

“Wow so that makes you the first of us then, really.” Iara says, shaking both of Shmi’s hands in a rather excited grip for a woman who is herself years older than Shmi. “Wow.” She breathes, a round cheeked Zabrak with yellow-toned skin and bronze hair. “Way to go. I mean – thank you – for all of us! I just- oh, wow, sorry! I’ve still got soil under my fingernails and I’m probably getting you dirty.” She lurches back, brushing her hands off on her coveralls, and beams, her face flushed and peachy. “I’m a farmer. Well, I was a farmer. Talent for the Living Force, as they say. Sorry.”

“I’ve done you no great favors.” Shmi says, quietly amused by the other womans effusive nature. “The Jedi calling requires much sacrifice, and it is you who has risked much to be here.”

The other woman blushes deeper, and Shmi nods graciously to her and continues making a round of the dorm, ensuring everyone was settling in.

“Thank you!” Iara calls after her. “Again!”

“I feel like I’m eleven again.” Cladu remarks uncertainly, a green-skinned nautolan only just of age, smoothing down the folds of his new initiates whites. “I still remember how to do the layers though. That’s….something?” He looks to Shmi uncertainly, and she nods.

“You were asked to be here.” Shmi assures him. “None of you need be so nervous.”

“But what if they reject me again?” He asks, and Shmi pauses, seeing in his face what she had seen in Obi-Wan’s, over a year ago.

 _Fear, doubt, shame_.

She looks steadily back at Cladu’s wide black eyes. “Then the Jedi do not deserve the gifts you have to offer them.”

He blinks, shocked, and his nearest bunkmates look nervously at her too. “C-can you….are you allowed to say that?” Cladu whispers, head tentacles twitching, so very different from Kit Fisto’s calm affability.

“I’m a free woman.” Shmi replies calmly. “I have nothing to fear here, and neither do you.”

“I heard you were a mom when you came in.” Ral Sei’lar, a black-furred bothan a few years older than Cladu remarks loudly, a hint of a growl in his throat. He’s no taller than Shmi, but as a bothan, he’s far bulkier.

“I am a mother still.” Shmi replies.

“So how does that work?” Ral questions snidely. “We get raised as Jedi all our lives and tossed aside, but you come along breaking every rule and it’s fine?”

“Hey, she’s the reason we’re here!” Someone snaps back, and Ral does growl at them.

“Not all rules are just.” Shmi replies evenly, refusing to be cowed. “Not even among the Jedi.”

“What about your brat, though? He in the crèche?” Ral questions, stepping closer. Shmi stands her ground.

“No.”

“What, you just left him behind?”

“No.” Shmi repeats herself. “At present, he is playing in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. As I said, I am his mother still. He stays with me.”

“So what, the rules of attachment don’t apply to you?” Ral challenges, his sneer showing teeth, his bristling fur making him seem larger.

Shmi swallows fear, and quiets anger, feeling both weigh heavy in her stomach. She shifts her balance, feeling her lightsaber hilts turn against her hips, a more familiar feeling every day.

She wants to duck her head, avert her eyes, leave. Make no trouble, earn no bruises.

In short, she wants to hide.

_I am Shmi Ekkreth, She Who Walks the Sky and Sees the Way. I am Amavikka. My face is Ekkreth’s face. My heart is Ar-Amu’s heart._

_And I am not a slave_.

She thinks of the room of reflections, in the labyrinth beneath the Holy City of Jedha, of the paths she has walked and could have walked and the one she chose.

 _I am not a slave_.

She had thought, in leaping to freedom, that being able to say such a thing made it absolute. But there was nothing about a person that could ever be absolute. She is not a slave. But she was, and she would carry that always.

“What you have said is true. I was not raised a Jedi.” Shmi says, meeting him eye to eye. “I was raised a slave, and attachment is something no slave can afford to have. He is my son, and I love him, and if I had to, I would let him go. I have not broken the rule, Initiate Sei’lar, I have mastered it.”

Her throat tightens, and she feels as if she has just walked bare into the height of the twin suns, but she tells herself, over and over – _I do not need to hide_.

Whatever he may have expected, that was not it, and Shmi glares at the flash of pity in his eyes, because he mean no kindness by it, and because even if he did, she has no use nor desire for his pity.

“Do you have any other questions for me?” Shmi inquires sharply, in her accented voice from a world none of them have ever set foot on, and a life none of them can imagine.

The bothan shakes his head sharply and turns away, moving back to his bunk, and Shmi carries on.

~*~

“Ben! Ben! Ben!” Anakin yips sharply, dashing back towards him with his friends in tow.

Ben himself has moved to sit on the edge of a proper fountain, where he is less easily pounced upon by compact, energetic little beings with hard knees and sharp elbows. He’s exhausted, but refuses to let it get the best of him just yet, though no doubt Healer Chias will track him down soon for being so long out of the Halls.

“Ani – that’s a _Master_!” one of his friends squeaks nervously, a chubby togruta boy with stubby little grey and white montrals and lekku. He catches Ben’s gaze on accident and shyly averts his purple gaze.

“It’s just _Ben_.” Anakin laughs, before completing his charge and tumbling into Ben’s legs.

“What a lovely assessment, _Shushu’ika_.” Ben remarks dryly. “Thank you.”

The boy giggles, head tipped back as he laughs, the image reminding Ben intensely of two-year old Luke. He’s slipped a few times and called Anakin by the wrong name, but the Skywalkers have never remarked upon it.

“I’m Etain!” A little girl flops herself over his legs right beside Anakin, her hair a mess of brown, red, and blonde, and her eyes a vivid amber-green.

“She’s a plant-person!” Anakin squeals, tugging on Ben’s sleeve, far more childish with his friends than he is when Ben usually deals with him.

“Anakin!” Etain rolls her eyes very dramatically for a child her age.

“She has green blood, and she eats sunlight.” Anakin explains.

“I don’t eat sunlight.” Etain huffs. “It’s called pho-to-synth-eth-is.” She sounds it out very carefully. “My skin eats it.” She then says. “And I’m only _half_ plant-person.”

Anakin shrugs, and then dances back a few steps and pulls his other two friends in close.

“This is Codi.” Anakin jostles his shy togruta friend, who is a full head taller than the rest, and Ben’s heart skips a beat before settling, memories aching. “And this is Jax.” He nudges the other boy, who looks very much like a shadow of Anakin, with brown hair and brown eyes, but a similar nose, though thinner, and a similar jaw, though his chin lacked the divot Anakin and his mother shared. “Jax doesn’t talk much, but that’s okay.” Anakin says.

“I’m very pleased to meet all of you.” Ben greets them, meeting each youngling’s eyes. Codi’s dusky skin flushes red, Etain smiles, and Jax just blinks back at him, staring.

“Ben’s gonna play push-pull with us!” Anakin declares to his friends, and then whips his head to look back at Ben, who begrudges the younglings their energy just a little bit. “But can we go see the fish the quartermaster put in the salt spring first? You can stay here, you’re tired. But please don’t leave?” Anakin pleads, tumbling forward and flopping over Ben’s legs again.

“I’ll stay for as long as it takes Healer Chias to come fetch me.” Ben promises.

“Okay.” Anakin beams, bouncing on his toes, and hugs Ben around the waist. Ben twitches, but more out of reflex than actual pain. Anakin gives him a worried look of concern anyways, pulling back, and Ben waves him off.

Anakin narrows his eyes in his mother’s expression of speculation, but Etain tugs on his arm and Codi looks ansty, so the boy gives in to his friends, and they dash off. “Back soon!” Anakin promises.

Ben lets out a breath.

“Master Naasade.”

He does flinch, startled by the Kel Dor, and Plo Koon offers a quiet apology purely in the Force.

“I’m not about to be reprimanded, am I, councilor?” Ben inquires, gesturing the stone seating beside him if the Kel Dor wishes to stay.

“Not by me.” Plo Koon replies.

“Small mercies.” Ben mutters, and the older man rumbles in amusement.

Koon settles down next to him, quiet for a few minutes as they both meditate passively, feeling out the temple.

“I see you are no longer required to wear a Force Inhibitor.” Master Koon remarks idly.

Ben takes a moment to respond, eyes half lidded, and glances at his bare wrist, thinking it was less clear than that. Master Yaddle had never told him to put it back on, and so he hadn’t.

It wasn’t exactly permission.

“Master Yaddle allowed me to remove it.” Ben says carefully, the words perfectly true.

Master Koon tips his head slightly, giving the impression of a sly glance. “Then perhaps it is time to resume your training, Master Naasade? I have spoken to your Soul Healer, and she says you are making good progress with the holocron.”

Ben eyes the Kel Dor, wondering when this conversation took place, because Ben would not call the state he was in when Healer Kala checked up on him yester eve to have been considered anything near ‘good’. Plo Koon’s focus remains steady, eyes hidden behind the protective filters, but the impression of himself clear in the Force.

“And the Council of Reassignment approves of this idea of me continuing to train on a highly dangerous Force Technique?” Ben questions doubtfully.

“I _am_ a member of that council.” Master Koon replies, the words perfectly true.

Ben meets the Kel Dor’s look briefly and then turns away, concealing his own inadvertent smile.

Perhaps some people would never be who he remembered, but Plo Koon had been who he was long before Obi-Wan Kenobi had ever been born.

~*~

“It’d be more convincing if she had a braid.” Obi-Wan insists, sitting up, feet hanging over the edge of the bed. His chest feels a little tight when he breathes, and moving with the gel-plast is uncomfortable, but Officer Greene is removing it soon, so, it won’t be uncomfortable for long.

“I felt uncomfortable enough when Padawan Jeisel lent me her robe.” Satine says, a light blush high on her cheeks, which Obi-Wan can just see over the scarf. “Pretending to be a Jedi feels….wrong.”

“Well, you do have Jedi permission, to pretend to be a Jedi, and we are encouraging the ruse for the purpose of your safety, for which we are responsible, so…” Master Vumoyo shrugs lightly, standing at a slightly awkward turn away from Obi-Wan, who wants to tell him that seeing the other Jedi’s scars won’t scare him just because of what’s happened now, but doesn’t quite know how to voice such a thing.

“Responsible?” Satine questions. “Master Jedi, I never meant to put that on you!” Satine says, guilt and appall in her voice.

“Your father did ask Padawan Kenobi to watch out for your safety, and when he was called away, he passed that request along to me.” Master Vumoyo explains innocently, while Obi-Wan’s eyes go wide in inner panic.

“ _sirbur tug'yc_?” Satine asks lowly, turning on Obi-Wan, silver-blue eyes narrowed angrily, which is precisely when Officer Greene sweeps back into the scene, shooting Obi-Wan a suggestive look regarding the girl over Satine’s head that made him blush.

“Well then, kiddo, shall we see what’s survived?”

“Healer Greene….”Master Vumoyo cringes quietly.

“Officer Greene, Master Jedi.” She winks at him, and the reserved mirial Jedi flushes a little, not quite meeting her eye, or Obi-Wan’s, which left him looking to an incredulous and off-kilter Satine, who had lost anger to confusion.

And worry.

“Perhaps we’ll step out, Miss Kryze.” Master Vumoyo suggests, one hand lifted to guide her out politely.

“It’s alright, Master Vumoyo.” Obi-Wan assures him, trying to get the mirial to meet his eye and finally succeeding. “Really.” He adds.

The master gives him a considerate look, and then nods. Obi-Wan looks to Officer Greene, and she briskly starts deactivating the electrical modules that run current through the gel-plast.

“I’m going to warn you it will probably sting a bit when I peel this off, but that will just be the nerves adjusting. Most of your burns have healed quite well.”

“What about the ones that haven’t?” Obi-Wan asks straight on. “You mentioned skin grafts.”

She nods. “I did. The ones here on your front side I’ll wrap with a protective adhesive layer so you can be transferred and treated at your Temple. The hand too – it needs a bit more work and more time to mend, so once I pull this frame away we’ll encase it in plasticrete and I’ll trust you to not go banging it about on things.” She says, matter of fact, and it helps Obi-Wan to not flinch that she doesn’t flinch.

Obi-Wan quirks a brow, and offers a cheap smile to Satine and Master Vumoyo. “Look’s like I’ll be seeing my master after all.” He remarks slyly.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi!” Satine reprimands. “That’s not funny.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and sighs.

Officer Greene tuts, gently takes hold of the bottom edge of the gel-plast, and starts peeling.

Obi-Wan sucks in a hiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Shushu'ika = Little Disaster.
> 
> sirbur tug'yc = say again? ie. What?!


	16. Chapter 16

Tholme has never felt less like a Jedi than in the long walk to answer the summons of the Reconciliation Council.

He feels afraid.

Angry.

Shaken by uncertainty.

He _feels_ , and no amount of repetitions of _there is no emotion, there is peace_ soothes him.

He fears they mean to take his padawan from him, permanently, and he doesn’t know what to do. Master Naasade had sworn to him that Quinlan could find his way out of the Dark, and Tholme clung to that promise with everything he had, but it felt like his grip was slipping, blood loosening the desperate hold of weary bone and flesh. Because Quinlan did seem to be getting better, and there were moments when he seemed to be all but escaped from the miasma that shadowed him, but then there times…

Then there were times when he smiled, and it was cruelest expression Tholme had ever seen on his padawans face.

Tholme is admitted to the chamber too quickly for his liking, his emotions still scattered, his thoughts circular, though none of it displays itself outwardly.

When last he entered this chamber, there was a charge of discord to the air that is not present today. To his surprise, Master Fisto resides in what was typically Master Tiin’s chair, and he wonders at that. Master Fisto is a likeable enough person, but Tholme had always felt that Fisto was also surprisingly elusive and difficult to predict. Guessing his position on this affair is a futile effort. Master Ti, he believes, leans in his favor. Master Mundi will do whatever he believes is most logical and most fair. Master Koon keeps his cards close to the chest, but is a uniquely forgiving individual. Perhaps he will look for mercy in Quinlan’s regard. And Master Yaddle will do whatever is best for the Order, and her decision could fall either way on that balance.

Tholme faces them with a sickening clench in his gut usually present in the dread of waiting for a conflict to break open, and pleads with the Force.

 _Don’t take him away from me_.

“Master Tholme.” Yaddle greets him, her crackly voice strong, despite her frailer appearance. She is in the prime of her life at four-hundred years, but both her and Master Yoda had seemed a little more brittle of late, the lines around their eyes a little sharper. Master Yoda especially seemed affected, though by this incident or some other cause Tholme could not be sure. “Many years, you have served this order. Dedicated, you are. Wise in the ways of the Force, and wise in the ways of the world. Faced many challenges, you have, and darkness. Faltered, you have not. A great challenge, before you, there is now.” She says, his heart sinking with every word, colder and farther away.

He had never thought to take another padawan. Quinlan had simply been….Quinlan. A surprise. A torment. A gift. An inevitability he hadn’t seen coming.

He had been unlooked for, and now Tholme feels that giving him up might be too much to bear. He won’t be able to stay, if he loses his padawan. He’ll go back to the stars, back to the Watch, though he feels too old for it now.

He’ll go back to the watch, and this time…well, there’ll be no returning.

 _Please don’t take him away from me_.

“Unforseen, and unprecedented, this challenge is.” Yaddle murmurs, huddled low to herself, focus half on him and half on a picture too big for the eye to grasp. “But a first, there must always be, and worthy of it, you are.”

“Please.” The word escapes him helplessly, and her green ears perk up, the lines around her mouth pursing.

“Dark, your padawan is. Escape it, he may not.” Yaddle decrees. “But guide him, you must. Your strength, he will need. Your wisdom, hm? A different path, he walks, but alone, he should not be. Young, he is, and his teacher, he still needs.”

Tholme is rooted to the floor in shock, his one good eye staring back at her unseeing, as the words sink in.

It goes against everything he has ever known. Everything the Jedi Order has ever taught him.

“Why?” He asks, with the same critical intelligence that coincided with his padawans.

Yaddle peers back at him, the council sharing glances, but the ultimate decision still hers.

“Greator evils, there are.” She remarks. “Mind them, we must. Go to your padawan, you should. Learn much from him, you may yet.”

~*~

“I’d like you to discuss Grievous this time.” Healer Kala says, with the same flat unaffectedness with which she suggests all his painful topics, as simply as if they were discussing the menu in the dining halls. “Your rather…disruptive flashback centered around this individual, did it not?” She waits for him to nod, while Quinan eyes them both antsily, ready to dash off so he can spend time with Aayla. “I think you’ve made significant progress, Master Naasade, and I think it’s time to address this focal point in your trauma.”

Ben smiles in spite of himself.

“It’s not a necessary topic for the holocron.” He explains, when her expression turns puzzled at his response. “The man who became General Grievous now never will.”

Quinlan jerks in surprise. “What?”

Ben shoots him an amused smirk and turns back to his Healer. “I can tell you about him, if you want me to.” Ben offers, flaring a hand to that effect.

Healer Kala hesitates, watching him, and Ben realizes his error – he has just admitted to a direct and significant alteration of history as it would have existed. The spirit can only grasp so much.

He lets her dwell patiently, though Quinlan squirms, reaching over and wrapping a hand around his elbow. “How?” The kiffar demands in a hush. “What did you do?”

“He once waged a war in pursuit of freedom, “Ben shrugs lightly, one eye remaining on their healer as she processes. “So I gave him freedom in exchange for peace.”

Quinlan narrows his eyes, sensing a wealth of things not divulged in that statement, but grunts a surprised and agreeable acknowledgement.

From a certain point of view, his claim is even true. He, once, was Obi-Wan Kenobi, and it was Obi-Wan Kenobi who prevented the tragedy that gave Grievous and his unanswerable vengeance rise.

“Tell me about General Grievous.” Healer Kala says, overcoming once more the unique and ridiculous difficulties her present patients so often present.

Ben nods, and shifts a little, leaning on his elbows and letting his gaze turn thoughtful, drifting slightly from his healer. He could admit much, but it was easier to do so when he didn’t have to look her in the eyes.

“General Grievous…” Ben starts, and stops, pausing to gather his thoughts.

Quinlan scoots off the bench and thumps to the ground, leaning against the bench and tipping his head back to watch Ben, eyes very keen for someone who appeared otherwise long-sufferingly uninterested. The ring of yellow around his pupils shone sickly.

“Have you ever been hunted?” Ben inquires absently, not really asking. “He hunted me, and I hunted him.” Ben says, rubbing his palms together, gaze dropping to the floor as the echoes of the past rang in his mind, a thousand battlefields behind his eyes. “He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t Sith, he wasn’t a Force-user…our conflict was in its own way the least and most personal.” Ben admits, an odd sile taking over his features, almost rueful.

“It wasn’t about the Jedi and the Dark Side, it wasn’t about philosophy, or faith, or even – even the Republic or the Separatists.” Ben says, admitting to all three of them what he once never would have dared to admit even to himself. “Not after our first few encounters, at least.”

Ben pauses again, and he can see the mask, and the eyes behind it, sinister and cold and familiar.

“Between us, it was General to General, and nothing else mattered.” Ben confesses, old shame stirring in his bones, and a sense of defiance. What else had the Order expected? What did they expect him to become, to _be_ , when they gave him that cursed title? “A battle of minds, and wills, and skill, testing and daring the other just to see how far we’d go…just to see which of us could _win_.”

“And in the end it was me.” Ben says softly.

~*~

“Oh…stars above….” Cladu uttered, as in awe of the great archives of the Temple of Coruscant as some were of stars and as Shmi herself was of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

“More impressive than the Educorps?” Shmi inquires, a small quirk to her lips as she guides him through the blue-lit stacks.

“Immensely so.” Cladu nods, his expression lit from within in quiet delight. “The Educorps has far less in hard data. Most of what we needed we stream from other databases, often this one.” He remarks shyly. “I spent an egregious amount of time here as a youngling.”

“No time spent learning is spent in excess.” Shmi remarks. “Learning is the gift of life.”

“Well said, Padawan Skywalker.” Madame Nu turns, a warmth in her eyes, from the terminal she was leant over. She looks between the both of them, hands clasping together, and lifts a fine white brow. “How may I assist you?” She inquires.

“Madame Nu, I’d like to introduce you to Cladu, one of the returned Initiates.”

“You make them sound like overdue datapads.” Madame Nu says lightly, her voice ever hushed in respect of her great library. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Initiate Cladu.”

“Oh – thank you, Madame Nu.” Cladu flushes slightly, and Madame Nu studies his face, which does the nervous nautolaun no favors.

“I distinctly recall nearly stepping on you more than once as a younger initiate, do I not?” Madame Nu remarks, and then Claud truly flushes.

“Oh, um, yes ma’am.” He laughs anxiously. “I remember that too. Sorry.”

“Nonsense. You were far from disruptive.” Madame Nu nods, and Shmi smiles between the both of them and quietly clears her throat.

“You mentioned once that you had not the energy for younglings, Madame Nu.” Shmi says encouragingly. The silver-haired woman looks to her, puzzled at the non-sequiter, and Shmi tips her head pointedly. She will force a decision on no one, but they do, occaisionally, she feels, need a nudge.

Jedi in particular, obstinate and fussy creatures that they were.

Jocasta blinks back at her, still faintly confused, and Shmi lifts a brow before glancing to the sky for a moon that was not there and sighing softly. _Ar-Amu have mercy on us_ , she prays, _and Ekkreth keep us well-witted_.

“Initiate Cladu returned to us from the Educorps.” Shmi informs her. “I thought the two of you would….get along well.”

“Oh?” The Head Archivist murmurs softly, looking over to him again. And then her eyes dart back to Shmi, widening as the message was finally received. “Oh!” She repeats, with higher lilt. “That was very thoughtful, Lady Shmi.” She says, the title slipping out of habit, as she turns and this time _focuses_ on the young nautolaun, looking between them in anxious obliviousness. “Perhaps you would like to assist me, Initiate Cladu? I would be delighted to discover if Padawan Skywalker is correct. Though…” She pauses thoughtfully. “I have yet to find her instincts misplaced.”

“Oh, I would love to, Madame Nu.” Cladu smiles, shifting on his feet as if ready to jump into service that very instant.

“Then we shall put you to the test, shan’t we?” Jocasta remarks, a little more lively as she steps away from the terminal, a light of eager appraisal still in her eyes, and gestures for him to escort her.

“I will leave you both to each other.” Shmi remarks. “Shall I return for you later?” She inquires, looking to Cladu.

“It won’t be necessary, Padawan Skywalker.” Cladu says politely. “This is my home, I know it quite well, but thank you.”

Shmi smiles, pleased with herself, and bows her departure.

If she gambled, and she doesn’t, she would bet he was to be _Padawan_ Cladu by the end of the week.

Madame Jocasta Nu was never one for haste, after all.

~*~

“Master Naasade, you are making people nervous.” Padawan Leeoli reports pointedly, watching him from behind her desk like an overprotective gundark over her brood, as if his mere presence might bring some ill luck upon her pristine work area.

Ben lifts a brow, taking a pointed glance around to the sparsly populated hall. “Am I making _you_ nervous, Padawan Leeoli?” He inquires, amused.

Her large golden eyes blink, and she wavers a bit, gills puffing up. “Yes. You’re…”

“Loitering?” Ben offers, which causes her to narrow her large golden eyes, clutching a datapad tightly.

“Yes.” She reports shortly. “Loitering.”

Ben hums, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m waiting for my padawan.” He tells her. “He’s just arrived on planet.”

She boggles a little, and then nods slowly in understanding, and then pauses. “I thought you were on suspension, Master Nassade.” She says slowly.

“Oh, he isn’t coming to me, Padawan Leeoli.” Ben remarks, ruefully. “He’s coming to you.”

“He’s injured?” Her countenance softens, and she sets the datapad down on the desk, glancing towards the doors in expectation.

“He is.” Ben reports, leaning back against the admin hub. “He’s received care, but I understand further treatment in required.”

“My apologies, Master Naasade.” The mon calamari bobs her bronze head. “Of course you can wait here.”

Ben smiles for her kindness, and she blinks, before abruptly busying herself, looking away with an odd discomforture.

Ben can almost track Obi-Wan’s progress through the temple, feeling him get nearer and nearer, a cascade of shyness and shame and exasperation spilling over their bond. Ben worries, but keeps that to himself, sending only reassurance back.

A flash of surprise, and Ben can imagine his padawan stopping abruptly in the hall, no doubt blushing in embarrassment at the _comfort-pride_ Ben offers him.

A few minutes later, he’s walking through the doors, his head ducked down, and Ben pushes off the desk to meet him. Obi-Wan stops at distance, and Ben strides over, resting one hand on his padawans shoulder and using the other to gently tip his face up.

Crawling apprehension skitters over his skin from his padawan, and Ben smoothes it away as best he can, drawing up his shields in expectation. Obi-Wan, after all, deserves none of his emotional backlash. The red-haired teenling clutches a small box in his hands, one hand white-knuckled in tension, and it rattles faintly as the contents shift.

His tunics are tied loosely, and Ben can see the outline of an adhesion wrap under his shirt, to say nothing of the green plasticrete cast that covers fingertip to elbow on his saber-hand, but it’s the mark on his face his padawan is trying to hide ineffectively.

There isn’t much for hair to shadow that side of his face, after all. A short ginger fuzz dotted with scabs, the other side a fluffy counterpart that makes his look windblown to one side.

“We’ll have to trim this into something a little less awkward.” Ben remarks, knowing his padawan had been pushing the limits of his padawan cut already, unhappy with the prickly hedgehog-like swathe it made of his vibrant red hair.

Obi-Wan doesn’t look up at him, not even to frown.

Ben sighs, and gently runs his thumb along the underside of the dark marks across Obi-Wan’s cheeks, darting up from the line of his jaw in broken angles, clean for the most part, though the longest, which came just shy of touching the underside of his eye, wavered like a lightning bolt.

“What happened?” Ben ask softly, pulling his padawan close under an arm and steering him away from the center of the Halls.

“It was my lightsaber.” Obi-Wan confesses lowly. “I don’t understand what happened. It just…it blew up in my hand.”

Ben’s grip tightens reflexively, and Obi-Wan shudders faintly, hunching.

Ben has seen what happens when a lightsaber malfunctions. More often than not, it was fatal.

Ben stops and pulls Obi-Wan in tightly, one hand moving to the center of his back and the other cradling his head, reassuring himself that his padawan was whole and hale and present.

Obi-Wan leans into the embrace, pressing his face into his master’s tunics, and Ben can feel the emotional torment that wracks his padawan, a mire of anger and anguish and betrayal.

Ben pulls back. “Obi-Wan. It wasn’t your fault.” Ben promises.

“But it was _my_ lightsaber!” Obi-Wan bursts out, shame-faced. “And I didn’t even notice! Someone could have been hurt!”

“Someone was.” Ben retorts dryly, and his padawan flushes.

“But someone _other_ than me.” Obi-Wan says mulishly.

“You are just as important as anyone else.” Ben says firmly. “Especially to me.”

Obi-Wan turns shy for that, nodding his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, padawan.” Ben sighs. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Obi-Wan nods, but doesn’t bother hiding the doubt Ben can feel singing through him.

“They collected the pieces.” Obi-Wan says, holding up the little box. “Some of which were collected surgically.” Obi-Wan adds, which does his master’s nerves absolutely no favors.

Ben accepts the box his padawan thrusts at him, and, glancing at his padawans blank expression, opens the latch.

Splintered metal and larger splints from the casing, melted wires, twisted, half-melted rings. The power converter was completely missing, and all that was left of the power cell was the base, which was all but melted through. One crystal was intact, though scorched, and the other was in glittering fragments. Ben lifts and hand and draws the fractured crystal up, catching the light in dancing flashes which lit his and his padawans faces.

“Did I do something wrong?” Obi-Wan asks. “When I built it?”

Ben lets the Force flow between his fingers, and the shards, ribbons of power threading together and dancing apart, flowing, until one was no different from the other and the separation between them blurred into seamlessness. All things were one, in the Force.

“It appears your crystal developed a flaw.” Ben remarks quietly, staring at the pieces with an eye that does not see light.

“Was it because it was split? When I found it?”

“No.” Ben answers truthfully, tearing at little threads of power with viciousness.

“But…how come I didn’t notice? What did I do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong.” Ben says firmly, looking back down at his padawans wide, uncertain blue-green eyes, burning with intensity. He almost admits it, but his eyes catch on the marks on his padawans face, raw and unkind and marring of his youth and his innocence, and Ben bites his tongue.

 _You were not meant to notice._ Ben thinks, and crushes the tiny whisp of darkness that sang between the shards, little more than a discordant whisper that carried devastating results. _You were meant to die._

Someone had tried to murder his padawan.

No.

Not someone.

Ben knew _exactly_ who.


End file.
